


Renegade's Legacy: Katachi Wo Kaeru

by reddawnrumble



Series: Renegade's Legacy 'Verse [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:11:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 42,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddawnrumble/pseuds/reddawnrumble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the trail of the Mohera finally warming up, Sam and Dean hop on a plane to cross the ocean and finish the beast off once and for all. Accompanied by John's Shifter counterpart, surly Bobby and cranky Rufus, the brothers touch down on the shores of Japan in search of the creature they released from Purgatory. Allied to a band of hunters who stick to an old code, Sam, Dean and their friends battle their way closer to Mohera...only to realize they are no longer alone in the hunt. And these newcomers are anything but friendly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_April 30 th, 2012_

_Lowtown, Kitaibaraki, Japan_

All Kobayashi Mio had ever wanted was to be a teacher.

            It had started when she was just a child; growing up the daughter of a poor fisherman, with no mother and five brothers who were less than stellar examples of upstanding siblings, she’d seen dozens of children in situations similar to her own. Broke, unable to afford a proper education. They’d resorted to self-teaching, scrounging books from the bins in the heart of Kitaibaraki, and spending their days on the docks near the Otsu Port. But Mio’s brothers had been heartless, scoffers, telling her it was a wasted venture. They’d passed whispers of their _urusai imouto_ to the men they fished with, and soon the word spread of Kobayashi Mio and her love of learning.

            It had the opposite effect her brothers had intended.

            Fishwives began to bring their children around to the docks. It was an innocent affair at first, tossing stones into the water while their round-eyed, curious offspring crowded around Mio, petting her silky dark hair and eliciting laughter from her. Laughter was Mio’s greatest strength, a deep, rich sound that rolled like the waves. Gradually, some mothers came less, and sent their children with their neighbors.

            And then, all of a sudden, it was just Mio and a dozen children, all younger than her. Fresh ears who had never heard the books.

            She taught them, every day, as they grew up. And kept it a secret, from her father with his tired eyes, withdrawn forever to the sadness of his wife dying in childbirth with Mio, and from her brothers, scornful mockers who saw more of a use in cigarettes and ogling women in the street than they did in any education at all.

            When she was twenty, Mio announced that she was leaving the small seaside shack that had been her family’s home for decades. She would not marry a poor fisherman and resign herself to the lifestyle; she was going to become a teacher.

            It was the first time her family ever acted out in violence against her.

            It started with her older brother, Kabuto; he caught her on her way to the docks the following morning, before the fishermen cast off for sea. Grabbed her by her beautiful hair, and dragged her behind the house, where her other brothers and a group of deckhands were waiting.

            They gave her a beating, both inside and out, that was so brutal she vomited. And then they mashed her face into the dirt and called her a _baita_ and a fishwife and said she would never leave these docks, not ever. She wasn’t smart enough, was a poor-man’s wench and always would be.

            They left her there, in her tattered clothes and her tears. But she dragged herself to her feet, and cleaned herself up, and walked five miles into the heart of Kitaibaraki. And she never looked back.

            Until now.

            The street was dark, but bright lights above and behind her reflected off of cobblestones and iridescent puddles. Mio walked with her head down, her long hair framing her face in a sheltering curtain. Her arms hugged her peacoat tightly around her, and she fought back the tears.

            Everything. After everything, she’d thought perhaps she’d be able to catch a break. But it had just come down to this. She was a whole new animal now, a special breed of monster. Her mother would’ve disowned her; her father, if he was even still alive, would’ve been stricken to his grave.

            By what she’d become.

            “Mio, love.” Beside her, a gangly man with dark hair and glasses. He tried to tug her arms from around her body. “What’s bothering you?”

            “Leave me _alone_ , Shiro!” She snapped, twisting away. “I’m all _right_!”

            “You don’t look all right!” Shiro’s retort was harsh and immediate, but he didn’t reach for her again. He’d learned years ago, when they’d first started dating, just how much Mio feared being touched in any sort of anger. Just one more lesson her brothers had taught her, with a vengeance.

            They splashed through deep puddles at a crossroads, and Mio glanced down the adjacent street. Her heart skipped and plunked into her ankles when she saw the dark-suited man on the sidewalk at the far end, striding along with his hat brim angled down. His shoulders were hunched; and here in the derelict part of town it was difficult to see, but Mio could _feel_ his eyes on her. Hot and hungry and impatient.

            She rubbed her hand almost subconsciously along the side of her neck.

            “Mio, _please_.” Shiro said, his tone placating. “What’s going on?”

            “Not now, Shiro.” Mio looked down the next road as they passed it, and the man was still there, keeping perfect time with them. Matching them almost stride-for stride.

            Mio could feel her heartbeat in her wrists, her eyes moving up to Shiro. They’d been together for a long time, and she always waited through the monthly business trips that took him away, and missed him while he was gone; but did she love Yoshido Shiro? Would she be willing to trade him for—?

            Her mind rebelled instantly; but a smaller part of her, an insatiable, hungry part, was screaming _yes_. She’d give _anything_ , would do _anything_.

            “Is this about the job interview?” Shiro pulled gently on her wrist, and out of sheer guilt Mio let him, and let him take her hand. “Because I know you’ll be fine. You’re brilliant, they can’t refuse you.”

            _Who_ couldn’t refuse? Mio rubbed her neck again.

            “I’m just not feeling well, Shiro.” Mio said, eyes darting down the next sidestreet. When she didn’t catch sight of the man again, the relief almost made her lightheaded. “I haven’t been sleeping well, and I—” Again, her hand flew to her neck, almost as though it had a will of his own. And Shiro reached carefully around her, making no sudden movements, covering her hand with his.

            “May I see?” He asked, politely, and the panic started all over again.

            Everything. Everything was falling apart. Maybe her brothers had been right; she wasn’t cut out for this. After all, she couldn’t secure a simple teaching position at a small school without offering favors to the Chairman of the Board. And now he was following her, and _demanding_ that she leave Shiro, and become some sort of mistress to him.

            And she hated herself for not being able to say an outright and vehement _no_.

            Shiro’s stride faltered, suddenly, stopping them both ankles-deep in a puddle. Mio scrunched her nose, disgusted, and tried to step forward. But Shiro was still gripping both of her hands, too tightly; and his nose was up, like a dog scenting the wind.

            “Shiro?” Mio tried to tug her hand free; and his fingers curled over hers, tighter than claws, making her jump, and shriek: “ _Shiro!_ You’re hurting me!”

            “Quiet!” He hissed, and the panic bubbled in her chest; she looked down the street, at the apartment building a block away, shining its welcoming lights out toward them. If she broke free, could she outrun him there?

            She tightened her arm to shove him off, but in that same second the spell of silence snapped; he grabbed her upper arm, across the front of her body, and spun her around. Keeping his vice-tight grip on her hand, he started to run.

            It was a wild, headlong dash back down the soaking alley, their feet kicking up muddy sprays of water with every other strep. Mio’s lungs were burning in seconds from the wardrum, uneven cadence of her feet sleeping the ground.

            “Shiro!” She gasped. “Shiro, wait, what’s going on?”

            “It’s coming!” He howled back. “ _It’s coming_!”

            Mio looked wildly over her shoulder, but saw nothing. Her fear for herself turned to worry for Shiro; had he snapped? Had he been poisoned, had something been done to him? She wanted to plant her feet, anchor herself, force him to stop and explain this, but they were running too fast, she couldn’t stop without falling on her face.

            Shiro fled around a corner in the alley, farther from civilization then they’d been before, the lights barely reaching them—and slammed to a stop, pulling her up short behind him.

            There was a brick wall in front of them, several stories high, impossibly slippery, impossible to scale.

            Shiro pulled Mio around, and pushed her gently behind him.

            Nothing happened, other than the fall of a fine, misting rain. Mio blinked, eyes squinting, yanking her peacoat tight around her body again; she didn’t like this, being trapped in this narrow hall of a backstreet with Shiro acting so strangely.

            Overhead, thunder groused through the clouds.

            And Shiro let out an inhuman hiss, his eyes flashing bright, his immaculate teeth elongating, growing sharp like fine-tipped daggers. A vicious snarl cut loose from his throat and he hunched over, his shoulders rising into hackles.

            Mio’s heartbeats stuttered in her chest. “ _Shiro_?”

            The growl dissolved into a whimper.

            And he burst, showering blood across the alley, spraying gore and brainmatter and bright streaks of scarlet on Mio’s front. She screamed, a piercing, petrified sound, and turned to run.

            She wasn’t sure if she hit something—something that couldn’t be, there, in front of her, because the mouth of the alley was still clear—or if she was shoved. But one way or another she was on her back, and then half-up, crab-crawling backwards until her shoulders hit the brick wall behind her.

            And there was _nothing there_.

            Nothing, but an icy feeling moving between her shoulder blades, and an unpleasant burning taste on the back of her tongue.

            The last thought in her mind was that these things only happened in the city; and that she should have stayed at the docks after all.

            Her last thought.

            Before she exploded into nothingness.  

 


	2. Chapter 2

_May 1 st, 2012_

_K.T.’s Hayloft Saloon, Lolo, Montana_

The small, skinny dart flew straight across the room and nailed itself one loop off the center of the board.

            The whole bar erupted, half of the patrons cheering and half of them groaning, money slapping and changing hands so fast it was almost uncanny. Mugs of beer clinked together, and a Fleetwood Mac song dripped from the speakers. It was warm, seasonable for the first of May, but inside the saloon with everyone crammed almost elbow-to-elbow, it was going on sweltering.

            Sam tugged at the collar of his flannel shirt, his eyes pinned to the laptop screen. The livestream report from local media as the police converged on a taxidermist’s shop in Florence, a few miles south—it was dominating his attention. He barely noticed the bartender—cute, blonde, probably in her early twenties—eyeing him from across the room.  Tucked in the back corner, away from the dart board, was the only place Sam could find peace.

            Peace to watch the end of their last case.

            The ghost haunting the taxidermist shop; now, that had been a new one for them. Worse than hunting the thing had been realizing the girl who ran the shop didn’t just stuff some rich lady’s dead cat. There were people, too—and one in particular whose spirit hadn’t been too happy about the murder methods. But from the look of the news feed, Regina Wilfer was being led away in handcuffs.

            And that was a wrap.

            Sam shut the laptop with one hand and leaned back in the chair, shaking his hair from his eyes and finally focusing back on the room. It was close and confined and smelled like cigarette smoke, sweaty bodies and alcohol. The buzz of excitement was starting near the dart board again. Linking his hands loosely behind his head, Sam grinned when he saw a cowboy wannabe—spurs, chinks, chaps and a wide-brimmed hat—squaring up sideways to the board.

            Next to him, shorter, scruffled spiky hair and a mildly drunk expression, was Dean. He was nursing his third beer of the night and didn’t even seem to notice the slender blond who was hanging off his back. That figured; Dean was more about the job than the spoils these days, in a way that surprised even Sam.

            But he wasn’t entirely a reformed man.

            “Hey, S-Sam!” Dean slurred, glancing over his shoulder. “ _Sammy_!”

            Sam rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. “ _What_ , Dean?”

            “C’m’over here and show this dude how to _really_ throws darts.”

            Sam sighed, shoved his chair back and got to his feet, walking over to join his brother and the patrons who were betting on another round. Sam leaned one arm lazily back on the bar counter, assessing the dartboard while Cowboy sized him up.

            “Nah.” Sam curled his lip in an apologetic smile and earned the consecutive groans of close to thirty people.

            “Aw, c’mon, Sammy, why not?” Dean was close to whining, and Sam shot him a warning look.

            “Yeah, _Sammy_.” Cowboy sneered. “’Fraid you’ll get shown up?”

            Sam’s expression twitched into a bitchface; Dean cleared his throat uncomfortably, shifting back.

            “Gimmie the darts.” Sam muttered, and Dean passed them over, clapping Sam on the arm in passing. To most people, it probably looked like a friendly bolster; that missed the point entirely. _Don’t kick his ass too hard, Sam_.

            Sam squared up to the dart board, ignoring the hooting and hollering of rowdy, drunken clientele around him. Let the noise slip and slide away; wasn’t easy for him, these days, to get quiet in his head. Too much chaos, what with the seizures and the memories of his alternate life still haunting on the fringes.

            But right now, it was easier; right now everything just slipped away.

            Sam pulled in a breath.

            And threw.

            One dart after another, rapid-fire, and they all nailed straight home in the bulls-eye. The cheers tapered off; Sam felt their eyes on him. Pinning him down, the freak again. Odd-one out. He rumpled his shoulders and walked back toward the bar-counter, stopping beside a wide-eyed Cowboy.

            “ _He’s_ the only one who calls me ‘Sammy’.” He brushed shoulders with Cowboy on his way to grab his laptop, their eyes still on him, grabbing Dean by the arm and spinning him around, away from the girl he’d finally noticed shadowing him. “C’mon, Dean.”

            Outside, dusk was settling in, a thick shroud of bruise-colored shadows twisting through the parking lot. Sam got in behind the Impala’s wheel without asking, and Dean let him, which meant he was tired on top of partially-wasted, with an otherwise empty stomach, and probably would be throwing up in the next hour or two.

            “Dude, you _owned_ that guy.” Dean chuckled as Sam pulled out. “Thought his eyes were gonna pop out of his head.” Sam managed a tight, indulgent smile, and Dean seemed to notice it, sitting up straighter and leaning across the seat. “You okay?”

            “I dunno. Yeah. I guess.” Sam rubbed his hand across his forehead; in truth, the headaches he’d managed to beat back for a couple of months were returning. Not in the force or frequency he’d suffered them before his wall had broken down, but enough to annoy him, even distract him sometimes.

            “ _Yeah, you guess_?’ What’s that s’posed to mean?” Dean was passing concerned and quickly moving to frustrated.

            Sam’s phone rang, saving him the trouble of explaining. “Just drop it, Dean,” He said, pulling his phone from his pocket and connecting the call. “This is Sam.”

            “Sam, it’s John.”

            “Oh, hey.” Sam switched lanes, ignoring Dean when he crossed his arms and hunched against the shotgun door. “What’s up?”

            “I’m on my way to Bobby Singer’s place. Need you boys to meet me there.”

            Sam frowned. “Yeah, sure. Everything okay?”

            There was a hum of static, miles wide, across the line. “I got a lead on Mohera.”

            “Where?”

            “I’ll explain everything when I see you.” John’s tone was rushed, preoccupied. “I’ll see you both soon.”

            The line went dead.

            “Huh.” Sam lifted one shoulder in a shrug and wriggled the phone back into his pocket. He didn’t want to give an intoxicated Dean access to his contact list; the last time that had happened, Dean had thought it would be hilarious to change the names of every person in Sam’s phone to the name of a monster.

            “Good or bad?” Dean mumbled, pushing his forehead against the window.

            “Dunno yet. That was John. He says he’s got a lead on Mohera.”

            “Awesome.” Sliding further down into the seat. “Aw, crap, Sam…”

            Sam reached over to give Dean’s shoulder a comforting rub. “Easy, big guy. Almost back to the motel.”

            They made it to the small Days Inn, but not through the door of their room, before Dean’s beer-battered stomach extinguished itself of all fluids. Sam shook his head and let himself in, grabbed the leftover package of oyster crackers from his chili dinner the night before, and joined Dean by the bushes.

            “Learn your lesson?” Sam asked, crouching beside Dean, who was facedown in the dirt.

            “God, I hate you.” Dean grumbled.

            “Hey, I’m the one who told you _not_ to drink on an empty stomach, man.” Sam dropped the package of crackers on Dean’s head. “I caught the news. Regina Wilfer is _officially_ out of business. So, looks like our work here is done.”

            Dean groaned and rolled over, slinging one arm across his chest. “Sioux Falls?”

            Sam linked his arms loosely around his knees. “Looks like it.”

            Dean squeezed his eyes shut. “We just left, like, a week ago.”

            Sam nodded; and when they’d left, Bobby had been removing his stitches with a pair of tweezers, remainders from the head-wound doled on him by Sam’s soulless meatsuit a few days before. Sam had tugged out the threads from his own forehead the day they’d followed the newspaper reports out to Lolo. And that had put the last case behind them.

            Not far behind. But enough.

            Sam got to his feet. “C’mon, Dean, we’re wasting time.”

            “Ugh, eat me.” Dean rolled onto his feet, putting his hand to the side of the motel to steady himself. “I feel like crap, Sam.”

            “Serves you right.” Sam tossed Dean the keys and he caught them in one hand. “I’ll meet you back at the car.”

            Five minutes later, checked out and with their gear loaded into the backseat, they were on their way to Sioux Falls.

 

 

            One package of oyster crackers, a rest-stop coffee and two bananas worked wonders on Dean’s appetite, and on his mood. By the time they rolled into down the next morning, he was back in decent spirits, singing along under his breath to a Jimi Hendrix song while Sam dozed off and on, wrenching awake every time Dean pounded the steering wheel along to a drum solo. The eighth or ninth time that happened, Sam gave up, and sat up, his jacket sliding off his shoulders, and peered out the window.

            Early-morning daylight spilled in between the familiar buildings of downtown Sioux Falls; they’d made the sixteen hour drive in fourteen, switching drivers halfway through, and still hadn’t beaten the sunrise.

            Sam yawned and stretched.

            “Sleep well?” Dean said wryly.

            Sam stayed quiet; he’d given up trying to explain his dreams of Hell weeks ago. Nothing came close, not even Dean’s memories, and they’d both had their tours downstairs. Sam pulled out the last package of cookies from under the seat and yanked it open. “How was the drive?”

            “Boring as hell.” Dean reached over and killed the Hendrix tape. “So John didn’t say anything else about this lead’a his?”

            Sam shook his head. “No. Sounded like he was pretty sure this one was going somewhere, though.”

            “I’m all for it.” Dean shifted restlessly in his seat. “’Bout time we ganked this son of a bitch, whatever it is.”

            “It might not be that easy, Dean.” Sam pointed out. “I mean, we don’t even know what its weak point is. Or. If it even _has_ a weak point.”

            “All monsters have got some kind of weakness, Sam. Y’know, their Achilles Heel.” Dean turned down the sloping rode that led to Singer Salvage Yard. “We just gotta find it, and hit it, fast and hard.”

            Sam didn’t answer.

            They pulled up to the weather-beaten two-story house a minute later, parking behind an old yellow Buick. Dean stared at the thing, then jammed his hands into his pockets and shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

            They let themselves in, following raised voices to the study.

            It was a familiar sight from years ago: John and Bobby in each other’s faces, arguing about something and not even noticing the boys. Dean popped Sam lightly on the arm with the back of his hand, nodded to the two of them, then leaned back against the doorway with his arms crossed and a smug smile. Shaking his head, Sam propped his shoulder against the opposite post.

            “There’s a reason we don’t go hunting outside our borders, you got any idea what’s out there? Crap we ain’t got _lore_ on, and a lotta hunters with a lotta methods that we don’t even have a name for!” Bobby crossed his arms on top of the desk and glared up at John. John, who had his back to Sam and Dean, and who was leaning his flat palm on the pile of books Bobby had scattered in front of him.

            “We don’t have _time_ for territorial disputes, Bobby.” John said sharply. “Either we do this, or that son of a bitch gets away, and we may not get another chance.”

            “You sound so much like that stubborn-ass Winchester—”

            “Well, he oughta.” Dean drawled. “The leech’s got Dad’s memories.”

            The men looked around, finally noticing Sam and Dean. John’s face arranged itself into a tired smile; Bobby didn’t even make an attempt at that.

            “If you two are done eavesdropping like a coupla girls, there’s beer in the fridge.” He snapped, slamming his book shut.

            “Yes, sir.” Sam backed out; he wasn’t in the mood to start a fight, especially not when Bobby had that cataclysmic, dire expression on his face. The last time Sam had seen that look, Azazel had popped a Devil’s Gate.

            They grabbed four beers, Dean tossing one to John and Sam setting the other one on Bobby’s desk. Bobby nodded grudgingly at him, so at least Sam knew the vitriol spray didn’t spread as far as him.

            He sank down on the couch. “So, I guess…you two have met?”

            “Five hours ago, this yahoo shows up on my doorstep.” Bobby glared at John, who to his benefit looked faintly repentant. “Introduces himself as the Shifter you boys have been hunting with. Then he walks in like he owns the place and starts layin’ down the law.”

            “Just like old times, huh?” Dean cracked, taking a swig off his beer. And Sam could see that even though Dean had his cool and cocky face on, there was something bright and warm and _right_ about the four of them being in this room together. Just like when Sam and Dean were kids.

            “So, what’s going on?” Sam asked, turning his beer bottle slowly around in his hands, watching John.

            The Shifter rubbed a hand over his unshaven jaw. “I’ve been tracking a stream of murders outside of the U.S. All of them going the same way; people totally dismembered, ripped limb from limb. Some of them,” He glanced at Dean. “No more than five minutes after they were last seen.”

            “Too fast for a human murderer.” Dean concluded, lowering his beer bottle with a serious expression. “Unless it’s Dexter.”

            “Dexter took more than five minutes, Dean.” Sam pointed out.

            “It’s definitely inhuman. No person can mutilate a corpse that fast.” John seemed to be ignoring Dean’s tacked-on pop-culture reference. “The follow-up on the cases confirms that the victims were all monsters. Some of them were pretty standard; others were things you boys have never heard of. And its post recent pit stop—”

            “Kitaibaraki, Japan.” Bobby said.

            “So it’s set up shop out there?” Sam’s forehead scrunched.

            “Looks like it.” John sighed. “And the more it kills, the bloodier the murders are becoming. Most of them can’t even be reported on the news anymore. The whole city of Kitaibaraki is in a state of emergency. And this is just the start; there’s no telling how far this thing can go, when it gets hungry enough.”

            “So why’s it just now getting Pyramid Head with the murders? Huh?” Dean sat on the couch beside Sam, their elbows brushing.

            “If you’re referring to how gruesome the deaths are, that’s part of the lore.” John said. “Everything I’ve read stays that the Mohera’s like a vacuum. It just keeps eating, and the more it eats, the hungrier it gets. Its appetite is growing. It’ll become insatiable before long.”

            “What happens when it gets that hungry?” Sam asked.

            John looked away. “The lore’s a little vague on that part.”

            “Ain’t gonna be good, that’s for sure.” Bobby interjected. “This thing feeds on monster souls. And with the monsters turnin’ humans as fast as they have been, the more this thing eats, the more they’re gonna be on the defensive. We’re gonna have a full-scale war against these sons of bitches if we don’t stop that Mohera. And fast.”

            “Instead of the, _small_ , scale, warfare that we’ve been waging since we were kids.” Dean smirked ironically. “Awesome.”

            “So, how do we stop it?” Sam asked.

            “The lore’s vague on that part, too.” John admitted. “What we do have is its back story. Which might give us a clue.”

            “Shoot.” Dean leaned back.

            “According to the only legend I could dig up, out the back of an archaic eighteenth-century chronicle from Egypt, the Mohera was one of the first creatures on Earth. Something like a dinosaur.” John rubbed the side of his neck, looking from Sam to Dean and back again. “When Michael threw Lucifer into the pit, a lot of things changed. Mohera was…corrupted. It became the first monster and had to be wrangled into Purgatory. Now that it’s out, it’s hungry. And it’s pissed.”

            “But the thing ain’t smart.” Bobby interjected. “All it knows is: eat, sleep, crap.”

            “And we’re sketchy on those last two.” John said with a small smile. “But Bobby’s right. This thing won’t stop eating. Probably until there’s nothing _left_ to eat.”

            “Which means a whole lotta souls.” Dean grimaced.

            “Right. And with every soul, it gets stronger. Like what Cass said, about souls being energy.” Sam said earnestly.

            “How’s that back story help us gank it?” Dean demanded.

            “If you follow the lore, the Archangel Michael gave the Mohera the boot up the rear, same way he did Lucifer.” Bobby explained.

            Sam stared down at his hands.

            “Great. I’ll just go summon him—oh, wait.” Dean straightened up. “I can’t. ’Cause he’s in the _Cage_.”

            “Dean.” Sam said, quietly, and felt Dean staring at him. He ignored his brother, and met John’s eyes. “Is there any other way to kill it?”

            “Kill it? No. It’s already too powerful.” John hesitated. “Unless we can get our hands on an archangel blade. Probably won’t kill it, but stabbing it might be enough to free the trapped souls and weaken it. And then we can try to throw it back into Purgatory.”

            “Cass could help.” Sam suggested.

            “First things first, we gotta _find_ the damn thing.” Bobby pointed out.

            “Yeah, about that.” Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “We know any hunters out in freaking Tokyo?”

            John smiled. “Kitaibaraki, Dean. And no, we don’t.” He exchanged a loaded glance with Bobby. “Not yet.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean frowned.

            “It means this asshat’s got a fool plan up his sleeve.” Bobby pulled off his trucker cap and rubbed a hand through his thinning hair. “We gotta fly out to Japan and stop it ourselves.”

            There was a beat of silence.

            Dean blanched and Sam burst out laughing.

            “What the hell is so funny?” John demanded in his Drill-Sergeant, ’Fess-Up-Or-There-Will-Be-Pain voice. Sam, still cracking up, couldn’t force the words out. Dean looked guiltily to the side.

            “Look, I got, a, uh—a problem. With, y’know…” He raised his hand flat at level with his head. John cocked his head.

            “With— _flying_?”

            “I had to exorcize a demon on an airplane! Man’s got a right to his fears!” Dean was almost whining, and that made Sam laugh even harder.

            “Well, I’ll be.” Bobby said smugly. “Never thought I’d see the day Dean Winchester had a fear’a heights.”

            John chuckled, and Dean glared at him.

            “Bite me, you guys.”

            And mid-sentence, the lights went out.

            Sam bolted upright on the couch, looking from John to Bobby to Dean. They seemed to have frozen, Dean with that same guilty expression, John and Bobby amused.

            The back of Sam’s neck prickled.

            “Oh, crap.”

            The entire room exploded into a whirlwind of ash, white light and fire spilling over Sam. He felt a knife slash through his back, munching staccato down his vertebrae. Lashes tore chunks from the muscle over his ribs; his mind remembered the exact rubbery feeling of flesh being peeled in strips off his bones. Lucifer’s hand tangled in his hair, the devil perched on his back while he cut inch-by-inch through layers of skin on the back of Sam’s neck, steadily approaching bone.

            Sam’s screams were choked off by the blood surging through his throat. He spewed it up in one squeeze from a stomach full of sloshing scarlet, his hands gripping and twisting wildly in the hair by his temples; hair that was burning, the fire racing up his arms and pounding its way into his skull—

            “Sam—Sammy!”

            The fire vanished, the acrid smell of smoke lingering, stinging his nostrils. Sam’s eyes rolled back from white, registering nothing, at first. Utterly disoriented, limbs giving one last, spasmodic jerk before going still.

            The first thing he became aware of was a hand rubbing small circles on his back. Then the smell; coffee and beer and gunpowder. His hands, still gripping his hair. He was sitting on the edge of Bobby’s couch with Bobby’s hand on his back and John standing across the room, staring at him, stunned, and Dean already halfway across the room, going to the kitchen, going for _something_.

            The reaction, pure instinct. Sam dropped his hands. “ _Dean_.”

            And Dean stopped, looking back at him. Not even a moment’s hesitation. He came back, and sat on the couch beside Sam, their arms bumping again. “Here, Sammy. I’m right here.”

            And in an uncharacteristic display of affection, Dean ran his fingers just once through the long hair at the nape of Sam’s neck.

            Sam closed his eyes, shuddering, hating the weak, shaky feeling spreading through his limbs, every muscle weighing a thousand pounds. His head drumming up a windstorm of pain, rivaling his out-of-control heartbeat. Hell was creeping closer these days. Closer than ever, closer than he could stand.

            Self-loathing slithered in when the flashback of Hell tapered off. Sam could feel their eyes on him, three pair of eyes who didn’t see, couldn’t _understand_ how useless Sam felt. He’d barely made it two hours without having a seizure; the last had been in a dream, just as vivid. He doubted even Dean knew how bad it was getting.

            Sometimes he didn’t even let himself realize it.

            “Well, guess I gotta go…book us a flight.” Bobby said grudgingly, getting to his feet. “Mind if I use your laptop, Sam?”

            “Yeah. No, uh, that’s fine. It’s in my duffle bag.”

            Bobby stood in the doorway expectantly, and after a few seconds tilted his head very slowly to one side. “Well? You comin’ or what?”

            Sam tugged on a reluctant smile, got to his feet and followed Bobby out the back door and to the Impala. Bobby didn’t immediately go for the laptop, though; he opened the shotgun door, shoved Sam gently down onto the seat and leaned against the backseat door beside him.

            They watched the sky, watched the cars, didn’t look at each other; Sam felt like there was a lecture brewing under the surface, here.

            “So.” Bobby finally said. “Been half a year.”

            Sam didn’t have to ask: half a year since he’d gotten his soul back. Half a year since he’d almost killed Bobby. Half a _year_ since the talk they’d meant to have in Essex, but never gotten around to having.

            “Look, Bobby, I’m—”

            “This ain’t about some sappy apology, Sam.” Bobby interrupted, gruffly, but not unkindly. “I just wanted you to know that, bad blood aside, I love you like my own son. You and Dean, you boys mean the world to me. And I know you didn’t mean it, and I know you’d take it back if you could. That don’t make your situation better; and I understand that. But I thought you should know that I forgive you.”

            Sam shook his hair out of his eyes, peering up at Bobby. “You do?”

            Bobby crossed his arms, and looked down at him. “Sam, I don’t put a lick of blame on you for what happened when that meatsuit was roamin’ the earth. Not for what happened here at the yard or out there in Nebraska. S’all water under the bridge as far as I’m concerned. You blame yourself enough for the both of us, anyway.”

            Sam didn’t deny it; Bobby could read the truth right out of him. “Sometimes I remember what he—what _I_ did when I was soulless, Bobby.” He raked a hand back through his hair. “Sometimes it’s worse than Hell.”

            Bobby made a soft growling sound in the back of his throat, that sounded pained and sad and resigned. More than anything, resigned.

            And then he dropped his hand into Sam’s hair. “We’re not givin’ up on you, Sam. Don’t matter how bad it gets.” And after a pause, he added. “Happy birthday, kid.”

            Sam closed his eyes, and breathed in the wind; it smelled like open air and oil and tasted like a little bit of forgiveness.

            They stayed out there for a long time.

           

 


	3. Chapter 3

_May 4 th, 2012_

_Regional_ _Airport, Sioux Falls, South Dakota_

“McDonald’s coffee tastes like crap.”

Dean had been nursing a watery cappuccino and a bad attitude since they’d gotten to the airport. But he had a valid reason; he was gonna be getting on a plane in less than an hour. If Sam’d had any pity on him, Dean woulda been drunk before they even got to the terminal. As it was, the others weren’t in the mood for his crap. Which was probably a good thing; not like the last time he’d been drunk was anything special.

Dean wrapped his legs around the legs of his chair, and kicked it back, staring at the stripes of artificial light on the ceiling; it wasn’t even one in the morning, probably closer to twelve-thirty, and Dean was already wound tighter than a bedspring.

Hadn’t been a long drive to the airport; awkward as hell, though. Bobby and John in the front seat, Sam and Dean in the back. No one saying anything; Sam had still been pretty wiped from that last seizure, and John and Bobby weren’t exactly beer buddies. Were buddies enough to drop the luggage off while Dean and Sam grabbed coffee, though. Which probably meant they were just giving Dean some room to talk to his brother.

Frigging traitors.

“How’s the head?” Dean asked the question toward the ceiling, playing it off, nonchalant. Sam looked up from the newspaper he’d bummed out of a gift-shop.

“Uh, good. I guess.”

“Uh-hunh.” Dean let his eyes move around the airport; noticed a coupla flight attendants passing by in tight skirts. Nice view. “ _Good,_ good, or _better than dying,_ good?”

Sam sighed, closed the newspaper and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Somewhere in the middle, I guess.”

Dean rocked the chair back down onto four feet and crossed his arms on the table. Cleared his throat; he hated this stuff. “You, uh, wanna talk about it?”

Sam shrugged. “What’s to tell? It’s the same thing it always is, Dean. It’s,” He broke off, folding the newspaper over. “It’s Hell. And it’s not going anywhere. So we deal with it, and we keep working the case.”

Dean swung his head down with a sigh; he was gonna be beyond happy when they’d iced the Mohera and moved on. He was thinking of turning over some serious rocks to find someone who could build Sam another Wall. Maybe even get Death back in the mix, if he could tempt the guy in with some kind of food.

Either way, once this was over, he was making Sam his priority. Hell. The kid already _was_. He just needed the good solid time to hunt up an escape from this headaches-from-Hell corner they were stuck in.

“Hey.” Sam nudged Dean suddenly, and got to his feet. “They’re back.”

It was easy to spot Bobby and John shouldering their way through the crowd; and there was a third person with them.

“He-Hey!” Dean chuckled, pushing onto his feet. “Didn’t think you were gonna make it, man.”

            “I said I would.” Rufus accepted the handshake, and the friendly one-armed, back-thumping hug, that Dean laid on him. “Looks like you came around just fine after Arco,” He added, turning with a nod. “Sam.”

            “Hey, Rufus.” Sam shook the hunter’s hand, too, then hunched his shoulders. “You brought all your lore books, right?”

            “Only two suitcases full of ’em.” Bobby complained.

            “Hey, Bobby, you’re the one who said to come well-stocked.” Rufus pointed out.

            “If that’s well-stocked, I’d hate to see your _whole_ stock.” John carded a hand back through his hair, and yawned. “You got everything else?”

            “Iron blades, bronze daggers, guns, a couple of swords.” Rufus parroted off.

            “And I got the rest.” Bobby said

            “Man, I hate not carrying on a plane.” Dean complained; the small of his back felt naked without a firearm crammed into his waistband. Any damned thing could be waiting on that plane. For seventeen freaking hours. Over an _ocean_.

            God, he hated flying.

            “Dean. _Relax_.” Sam gave his shoulder a shake. “It’s gonna be fine.”

            “Quit with the touchy-feely crap, Sam.” Dean ducked his brother’s grasp. “Planes crash, all right?”

            “Clowns kill.” Sam rejoined, and Dean rolled his eyes. “I’m serious, man. You know you’re, like, ten times more likely to die in a car crash than a plane crash?”

            “Not helping!”

            “If it’s any comfort,” John said on his way toward the bathroom. “In our line of work, you’re about seventy-five percent more likely to die on a job than mid-flight.”

            Dean stared after him. “Dude’s a bag of sunshine.”

            Bobby huffed. “Are we done chattin’? They’re gonna call our flight soon.”

            Dean sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

 

 

            The first leg of the flight wasn’t all that bad. Except for take-off, when he was grabbing the arms of the seat way too hard, and landing, when he basically just sat with his head on his knees; Sam gave Dean his old, beat-up iPod to listen to and Dean just jammed Van Halen the whole way into Chicago.

            Then came the fun part: waiting on the plane that was gonna carry them across the Wide Blue Yonder to Japan. And that plane was delayed.

            Dean ended up going over lore books with Rufus and Bobby while Sam sprawled out on one of the stocky, way-too-firm couches in the middle of the terminal, trying to sleep, his arm over his eyes. Gave Dean time to get wound up and start thinking over about a billion different reasons the plane could crash, and then he had to get up and start pacing, and kept doing that until Sam smacked his leg in passing.

            “Cut it out.” He mumbled, and Dean did.

            He’d been bending over backwards to do a lot of what Sam asked him to, lately.

            The plane finally landed close to five in the morning and they had to go through the whole, get on, sit and wait, taxi, take off routine again. Twice in one night. Dean wondered how long it took for stomach ulcers to develop.

            “Dude. Relax.” Sam rolled his head against the back of the seat, closing his eyes. “Watch Mulan.”

            “I’m not gonna watch a freaking Disney movie, Sam!” Dean complained, avoiding the credits rolling on the screen two rows up the aisle. In the seat on his other side, Bobby rolled his eyes and buried his nose in a lore book.

            The next hour proved him totally wrong, and left him totally distracted, and, yeah, okay, it was a funny movie. As far as animation went. At least he had Sam between him and the window so he didn’t have to really look at the lightning flashing through the clouds below them. Cheerful as all hell.

            Airplanes, man.

            Dean closed his eyes, slid down a little in his seat and reached up to punch off the overhead light.

            Weird stuff crawled through his dreams; usually did, after a hunt. The taxidermist thing left him with a sour feeling under his skin, though, and bizarre nightmares. That bitch taking him and Sam hostage, him being forced to watch her gut and stuff his brother, and then watching her do the same thing to _him_ ; sorta felt like Hell. Like being on Alistair’s rack, like he’d ever forgotten what _that_ was like.

            Then the dream switched, the ways dreams do sometimes, no warning, just dropping him from something kind of disjointed into something different: hunting something. A forest, at night, his gun in his hand. Running down a monster.

            _Mohera_.

            Right before he caught a look at it, Dean jolted awake, feeling the plane dip dangerously beneath them. He gagged a little, his stomach rebelling against the pitch and roll, and he shoved his fist to his mouth to keep in the bile, casing the cabin.

            Okay, it was still dark inside, a lot more people asleep than when he’d dropped his guard. Bobby was gone; either in the can or he’d gone to talk to Rufus. Dean shook his head, glanced over—pressed his mouth down in a hard line.

            Sam was asleep on him, his head on Dean’s arm. His mouth hanging open, dripping spit _on Dean’s jacket_. And on himself.

            “Freaking drooler.” Dean muttered, adjusting his weight. Sam did the same thing, definitely unconsciously, moving closer. “Last time I sit next to you on an overnight flight, princess.”

            Sam’s head dipped lower on Dean’s arm, and his whole body moved in one long tremor. His jaw slacked open and a weird sound eased out of him; sorta like someone squeezing the air out of a huge bag of leaves. Somewhere between Sam’s gigantic throat and where Dean heard it, though, the sound turned into a whimper.

            Dean stared down at his brother, his annoyance slacking off into something different: sadness.

            Sam’s head dropped all the way down onto the crook of Dean’s arm; and his hand came up, knotting in Dean’s sleeve. Totally childlike; had no idea what he was doing. Another one of those whimpers squeezed out of his chest.

            There was a scuffle of movement in the aisle and then John dropped into the seat beside Dean.

            Dean tried to size the man up from the corners of his eyes, ’cause, hell if he was gonna get caught staring. It still creeped him out a little, seeing this guy wearing his dad’s face everywhere, but he was starting to get used to it. Kinda.

            “Wanna know something, Dean?” John said conversationally, linking his hands in his lap.

            “Uh, somethin’ tells me I _don’t_.” Dean replied frankly.

            John half-smiled. “Your dad was afraid of flying, too.”

            “No kidding?”

            “Think it had something to do with the war. A buddy of his, in the Airborne. Shot down overseas. He white-knuckled it every flight after that.”

            “Huh.” Dean shrugged. “Small world.”

            “So I’m learning.” John stretched out his long legs into the aisle, earning himself a withering glance from a flight attendant who was passing by. “How’re you doing these days, Dean?”

            “Oh, I’m just peachy. Everything’s sunshine and rainbows over here in Winchesterland.” Dean said acidly.

            John kept watching the underside of the baggage holder overhead, which was something their dad never would’ve done; he’d’ve probably smacked Dean upside the head and demanded to know what the hell he was keeping secrets about.

            Which made this guy a lot different and, yeah, easier to live with.

            Sam stirred, head twisting on Dean’s arm, and then sank back into sleep. He looked like a pretzel, crammed into that tiny little seat.

            “Wanna know what’s really goin’ on?” Dean asked John, softly, keeping his head turned toward Sam.

            “Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

            Dean almost smiled at that one.

            “We’ve been hunting, non-stop, ever since Sammy got his soul back.” Dean said; let himself look out the window, at the pitch-black on the other side. Easier than facing John. “Essex, Memphis, freaking…Vegas, man.” He huffed a laugh, without any feeling behind it. “And y’know, kinda feels like we’re chasing our asses.”

            John grunted. “How’s that?”

            Dean leaned his head back against the headrest. “When we let that thing outta Purgatory? Mohera? We shoulda been hunting this mother right from the get-go. But we got tangled up with that Draugr and everything went south after that.”

            “Dean.” John had that Spiffy-Up-And-Pay-Attention tone to his voice; awesome. “Every life we save is worth it.”

            “And what about the ones we _don’t_ save, huh? What about all the ones who are getting turned and offed by hunters?”

            John cracked a smile. “You sound like your brother.”

            Dean blinked. “Come again?”

            “You’re thinking about the people they were, not the monsters they are.”

            Dean didn’t have a witty comeback for that one.

            “You can put yourself in a psyche ward chasing the possibilities, kiddo.” John said matter-of-factly. “Fact is, we can’t change who we save and who doesn’t make it. We just keep our heads down and don’t stop fighting. You hear me?”

            Dean shifted his jaw and closed his eyes. “You’re way better at pep-talks than my dad was. He’d just tell me to get it together and get my head back in the game.”

            John laughed, quietly. “That wasn’t a pep-talk, Dean. Or if it was, it wasn’t just for you.”

            Sam’s head shuddered, his face twisting down into Dean’s sleeve. John looked across Dean, toward his slumped, sleeping little brother, and he frowned.

            “What about Sammy? How’s he holding up?”

            “Ah, he’s good.” Dean said; same thing he’d told Bobby, and every Tom, Dick or Harry who asked him, when they’d see Dean dragging the Hell-broken Sam out of the car and into a motel room after a seizure.

            “Dean.”

Oh, crap. He knew that tone.

Dean shifted awkwardly in his seat, trying not to jostle Sam’s head off, but he felt that really visceral need to get away from John’s stare.

“All right, all right, already!” Dean growled. “Quit lookin’ at me like that!”

John receded, but not much. “How is your brother _really_ doing, Dean?”

            Dean studied his shoes, kicked up under the seat in front of him. “Probably worse than he’s letting on. He’s a stubborn son-of-a-gun, y’know? But these damned seizures just keep getting worse and worse.”

            “How much worse?”

            “Last couple days? He can’t go more than a couple hours without freezing up.” Dean tried to smile, brush it off, but it twisted up too tight, slanted down. He wasn’t fooling John and he wasn’t fooling himself. “He thinks he’s great at hiding it, like right now, when he’s sleeping.” He shook his head. “I can pick up on it.”

            “How?”

            “Y’know the way he was after the seizure at Bobby’s?” Dean asked, and John nodded. “Believe me, that was toning it down. He’s like a little kid after one of these things, lately; if I leave him alone for five minutes to go gas up the car, and he takes a hit, he’ll call me and talk to me until I walk through the door. If I’m actually _there_ when it happens, it’s worse; one time I woke up in the middle of the night and found him asleep on my feet. Kinda like he used to do when he was seven, remember that?”

            “Yeah, I remember.”

“Well, it was cute when he was a kid. Now it’s just weird.”

“He needs you.” John said, simply.

            It was that stupid, ass-brained selfish part of Dean that was glad Sam needed him again; they’d gone through a couple rough years of being at each other’s throats, trying to prove to each other that they were better, stronger on their own. It just sucked that Sam’s suffering had to the catalyst that blasted them back together.

            Sam’s fingers released Dean’s sleeve and draped onto his knee instead.

            “Dreams are worse.” Dean rasped, watching his brother.

            “You can tell, huh?”

            “Just by watching him. Way he moves, the sounds he makes.” He studied Sam for a minute, the way his long limbs were twitching and twisting, his face scrunching up and his eyes squeezing shut. Like he was pulling himself away from something, crawling out of Lucifer’s hold, probably. “This one’s…pretty bad.”

            “And you don’t wake him up?”

            Dean shook his head. “He doesn’t like sleeping. I gotta fight him to get him to close his eyes for a few hours, mosta the time. So if he feels good enough to get some shut-eye, I gotta let him deal with the dreams or he’ll drop dead on the middle of a case, from stress or something.”

            John chuckled. “That explains why you’re letting him use you as a pillow.”

            Dean rubbed the back of his neck, awkwardly. “Shut up, man.”

            He’d been learning to let go of his world-views a lot lately; that, yeah, chick-flick moments should be kept to a minimum. But if it was a choice between watching his dignity go up in smoke or letting Sam suffer, hell if he wouldn’t share a freaking _bed_ with the guy once or twice, with Sam’s huge Sasquatch body sprawled out on Dean’s feet, just so Sam could escape the pit in his head for a couple hours.

            “For what it’s worth, it seems like you’re doing right by him.” John said. “Sam obviously feels safer when you’re around; he still wants you to be there when he’s scared. I saw that at Bobby’s the other night.”

            Yeah. And Dean was planning on being there, being Big Brother and fixing things anytime Sam needed him to.

            “Guess some part of him never grew up.” Dean shrugged.

            “No, it’s more than that.” John said, watching Sam with those dark, sad eyes. “Dean, the burden that I,” He broke off with a kinda nervous look. “That your father put on you. Taking care of Sammy. That was more than you should’ve had to carry. As a kid. As an _adult_.”

            “Wasn’t a burden.” Dean said gruffly. “And it wasn’t your fault.”

            “You’re right, it wasn’t.” John agreed. “I wasn’t that man. But he had no right telling you to save Sam or kill him, after twenty-two years of making Sam’s survival your number-one priority. That wasn’t fair, to you or to Sam.”

            “How’d you know about that?” Dean demanded.

            “There aren’t a lot of secrets in the dark places, Dean.” John said. “One monster—say, a vampire—overhears something, and it spreads like wildfire.”

            “Just leave it alone, man.” Dean pinned a glare on the window so he wouldn’t get pissed just _looking_ at John. And why the hell he was bringing _this_ up was a mystery. Dean had thought all this crap was water under the bridge; after the Apocalypse, after _everything_. His Hell, Sam’s Hell, had kinda imploded everything their dad had ever said.

            Dean wasn’t the beat-up hunter in a hospital bed anymore, taking in his last orders: save Sammy, or kill him. He was a Hell-veteran with way too much crap in his rearview mirror and a lot more heading his way. And Sammy wasn’t that innocent, scruffy-headed kid fresh outta the car accident and totally lost. He was Dean’s overgrown, self-loathing brother with a busted head.

            The rules didn’t really apply to the two of them anymore.

            “Yeah, so my dad told me to take care of Sam, or gank him. So what?” Dean slouched in his seat; probably made him look like a whiny five-year-old. He didn’t really care. “Just one more thing I can’t forgive the man for. It’s a laundry list.”

            “He was still your family, Dean.”

            “Sam’s my brother.”

            John seemed to get that that was an answer you didn’t argue with.

            “Well, for the record,” He said. “Burden or not. You’ve done a good job taking care of your brother, Dean. I think your dad would’ve been proud. I know I am.”

            Dean’s laughter came out strangled. “Man, have you _seen_ him lately? Sam’s nine kinds of screwed-up and I’m on my way there, myself.”

            “But he’s still alive. You both are.” John pointed out. “That counts for more than most people would think.”

            “Yeah, but you’re biased.”

            “I am.” John reached over and gave Dean’s shoulder a shake. “Get some sleep. We gotta hit the ground running in Kitaibaraki, and the jetlag’s murder.”

            “Yeah.” Dean reclined his seat, adjusting his arm to he didn’t shove Sam off. “Wake me up if there’s anything I need to kill.”

            “Bobby and Rufus and I can handle that.”

            Dean couldn’t argue that one.

            Which was probably why he was asleep fifteen minutes later, out like a light; it felt good to have somebody else doing the watching. Safe, even.

            Was the last peaceful minute they were gonna have.

           

 


	4. Chapter 4

_May 6 th, 2012_

_Narita_ _International Airport, Tokyo, Japan_

“Sam. Up an’ at’em, kid.”

            Sam snorted awake, blinking his eyes open blearily; for a second, everything stayed dizzy around him, the rich red-gold of fire licking his skin. He swiped a hand down his face, shook his head, and when he opened his eyes again he was staring at the fuzzy gray back of the next row of seats, perpendicular to his line of sight.

            “Sam!” Dean cuffed him on the arm. “C’mon, big guy, get it in gear.”

            Sam shook his hair out of his eyes and sat up, yawning; grateful, like he always was, that after the first few minutes his dreams of Hell got fuzzy at the corners. Not that he could exactly forget the flavor or texture of his large intestine being ripped out through his mouth, but the finer details melted away and that much, at least, was a relief.

            “We land yet?” He asked groggily.

            “Five minutes ago. We’re gettin’ off soon. I think.” Dean’s face twisted into a dry look of confusion. “If that’s what the chick on the intercom was saying. I don’t speak Japanese.”

            “You could always ask Bobby.” Sam stretched, dragging his shirt up off his stomach, and then he squirmed uncomfortably; these narrow spaces between seats were way too compact to be comfortable for somebody his height. “How was the flight? You throw up or anything?”

            “Dude, no way. It was awesome.” Dean said nonchalantly. He slid his satchel from under the seat and slung it over his shoulder. “How ’bout you, huh? Have any more of those Nicole Kidman dreams?”

            Sam quirked a smile. “Dean, _you’re_ the one who likes her.”

            “Eh. Prude.” Dean bounced onto his feet with the rest of the passengers and shoved his way into the queue heading for the exit.

            “Dean! Wait up!” Sam grabbed his carry-on from under the seat, feeling the flask of Holy Water and the can of salt inside bumping his hip as he squeezed in between two women who looked twice as exhausted and frustrated as Sam felt, and followed his brother out.

            It was weird how backwards the airport felt, right off the jump; Sam emerged on the concourse and felt his head swimming with bright sunlight and indecipherable handwriting leaping off of bright powder-blue posters on the far wall. Dean was staring at the writing—Sam thought it was probably Kanji—with his head tilted to one side, like he was trying to figure out a really tough hand of poker.

            Sam hitched his carry-on higher up his shoulder and joined Dean. “Don’t give yourself a headache.”

            “Dude, that’s a bunch of blocks!” Dean pointed to the poster, and the script. “Who the hell can actually _read_ that?”

            “It says, ‘Welcome to Tokyo, please take time to visit our Natural Museum. Call ahead to schedule tours for large parties.’”

            Sam and Dean glanced around as Bobby, Rufus and John joined them.

            “We count as a large party, don’t we?” Rufus said.

            “We’re here to work, not play, ya idjit.” Bobby groused. “We don’t got the time to pander to your obsession with _artifacts_.”

            “Hey! It’s Japan’s biggest collection of historical—”

            “Save it.”

            Dean grinned at Sam and started down the concourse, John silent behind them and Bobby and Rufus bickering in the rear.

            Bobby turned out to be a lifesaver, leading them through a confusing maze of checkpoints and inspections that left Sam feeling a little violated. He caught up with Dean yanking his leather jacket back on, his face twisted into an uncomfortable expression, shoving his passport into his back pocket.

            “Dude, these guys are _seriously_ hands-all-over.” Dean hunched his shoulders.

            “At least they didn’t do a cavity search.” Sam said optimistically.

            “Oh, man, Sam, take a look at that arcade!” Dean elbowed him in the ribs and gestured to the glass walls separating them from a room full of whirling light, total sensory overload.

            “Dean. We’re in _Japan_.”

            Dean’s mouth tipped down in a facial shrug. “Touché.”

            After that, it was just a matter of grabbing their luggage—Rufus holding his duffle tightly to stop the weapons inside from jostling too much, clanking the knives together—and then Bobby led them down a long, furbished hallway toward God-knew-where.

            “You do know where you’re going, Bobby?” John asked, pulling his duffle on over his shoulder.

            “To _Disneyland_.” Bobby replied acidly. “’Course I know where I’m goin’. We gotta take the train from here to Kitaibaraki. Unless you boys wanna rent a car.”

            “Only if you take the backseat.” Dean shot back.

            “Oh, you’re a riot.”

            “He’s too fat.” Rufus complained.

            A surprised laugh burst out of Sam, and he felt both John and Dean look at him. Flushing, he clenched his molars against a smile and looked away.

            “Yeah, and you’re gassy. Eat me.” Bobby hung a right and led the way out onto an open-air platform beside a curvy tunnel and a set of steel cable tracks. “Train should be here any minute.”

            Sam leaned his shoulder against one of the pillars and yawned, eyes drooping shut. Even with a long rest on the plane, he was tired; part jetlag and part Hell, two things warring for control over his energy.

            The streamlined train pulled up a few minutes later; and Bobby had their asses covered, again, this time with a fistful of yen that he used to pay for all five of them. It left Sam wondering if he’d scrounged it up from some dusty corner of his house before they’d left, or if he’d pick-pocketed someone in the terminal.

            The train ride was bumpier but a lot easier than the flight into Tokyo; watching the coast phase by outside the huge window that took up most of the train’s side from floor to ceiling, Sam felt his weariness sloughing off. It was about time they started hunting this thing down.

 

 

            Kitaibaraki proved itself to be a small, industrial town and probably would’ve been more active if it wasn’t still limping back onto its feet from the tsunami the year before. As it was, finding an affordable motel was murder; it would’ve been easier to start renting an apartment.

            The room they finally booked was in shambles: wallpaper peeling, a saccharine-sweet stench of mold in every corner. There were two beds, shoved against the back wall: wire frames, thin, starchy mattresses. No bedding, moth-eaten pillows. The carpet was rust-orange and smelled like old cigarette smoke and greasy food.

            “We’ve stayed in some dives before, but _man_ , this place takes the cake.” Dean threw his duffle down on the bed. “Hope you didn’t pay much for this, Bobby.”

            “I paid enough.” Bobby shut, locked, deadbolted and chained the door. “’Least there’s a balcony.”

            Sam pulled up the double glass doors on the far side of the room, stepping out onto the narrow shelf with one hand on the cold iron railing. _Iron_. That was a good thing. Sam gave it an experimental rattle, quaking the whole structure. He swallowed hard and backed into the room, shutting the doors behind him.

            “First things first.” John said. “We need to get a feel for what’s out there.” He pulled out a handgun from his duffle, tucked it into his waistband and met Sam’s eyes. “You wanna come with me, Sam?”

            “Uh,” Sam glanced at Bobby. “Yeah, sure.”

            “All right, you two scope the place out. We’ll set up base camp.” Dean sprawled on one of the beds, arms folded, then shifted awkwardly on the hard springs.

            “If you’re gonna set up, then _get_ up, idjit.” Bobby smacked Dean’s leg to get him in gear, and John closed the door on Dean’s protest.

            They descended two flights of stairs and emerged onto the street without saying anything; Sam had the distinct, crawling feeling that John was studying from the side, trying to figure out what was going on in Sam’s head.

            His dad had never been very skilled at that, either.

            “Something on your mind?” Sam asked wryly as they waited on a car slogging its way slowly down the scarred road.

            “Your brother told me about your seizures.” John hustled across the street with Sam on his heels; they hung a right, following the road when it curved and started climbing, moving into a more ornamental part of town; not as much disrepair, the farther they went.

            “How much did he tell you?” Sam asked casually.

            “Enough.” John stuffed his hands in his pockets and blew out a long breath. “You haven’t tried any treatment?”

            “As far as I know, it’s incurable.” Sam said, watching the sidewalk. “Even Cass wouldn’t touch it.”

            “That guy’s a big help.” John said, with a touch of sarcasm.

            “You’ve never even met him!”

            “I don’t need to. I know what this whole world went through because the angels had their private agenda. Jumpstarting Armageddon?” John shook his head and scowled. “That culminated in you going to _Hell_ , Sam.”

            Sam sniffed, and shrugged; like he needed reminding. “When they found out Lilith’s plan for Dean, they stormed Hell to bust him out.”

            “For their own endgame.”

            Sam couldn’t argue that; Castiel was their friend, but his superiors had been dancing Sam and Dean on puppet strings for a long time.

            “Doesn’t matter.” Sam followed John right, crossing a street that was still under repair, dodging workers who were shouting at each other in rapid-fire Japanese. “Cass is our friend. More like…family.”

            “Here.” John threw out an arm to stop Sam, then motioned him down an alley on their right.

            There was yellow crime-scene tape scrawled in kanji—Sam was assuming. He was aware there were several different written forms of the language but hadn’t exactly had a chance to tutor under Bobby lately—and strung from wall-to-wall across the narrow hallway between two buildings. No one was watching the place, though; no one that Sam could see. It was almost strangely deserted.

            “This is it.” John said grimly. “The Mohera was here.”

            “How can you tell?” Sam asked.

            “I can smell it.” John’s voice dipped to a growl, one of the few times Sam had seen him act like the Shifter he was, and not the human whose face he wore like it was his. “Come on.” He ducked under the tape and held it up for Sam to follow him.

            “You can _smell_ it.” Sam echoed skeptically.

            John rubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw uneasily. “There’s something about the Mohera that I didn’t tell your brother. I didn’t want him spooking; he has a hard enough time trusting me as it is.”

            “Okay,” Sam felt caution creeping into his veins. “Hit me.”

            “Humans,” John said, staring at the faint reddish-brown smudges on the back wall of the alley. “They can’t see Mohera. They can perceive its presence. But only other monsters can sense it for what it is.”

            Sam took that like a punch, let it sink in. “So you’re saying we’re fighting this thing totally blind.”

            “That’s what I’m here for.” John crouched, running his flat hand across the pavement.

            “What else haven’t you told us?” Sam asked.

            “Nothing you would find interesting.” John straightened again, wiping his palm on his thigh. Sam stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the crusty blood, eyes narrowed.

            “ _Try_ me.”

            John sized him up with frustration glinting in his eyes. “The Mohera doesn’t think like humans. It doesn’t have any concept of language because there _was no language_ other than Enochian when it became whatever the hell it is now. So when it was invading all of our minds, we picked up on…a flavor. A taste of what it wanted.”

            “And that was—?”

            “To feed. That kind of hunger,” He broke off, shaking his head bleakly. “Sam, there _are_ …no words. It’s not just a need; it’s more primal than that. It wanted all of us turning humans as fast as we could. And the other monsters did it to save their own skins. But then it stopped, no warning, and I _don’t know why_.”

            And Sam could tell John wasn’t lying; what it took just for him to admit that much, to admit how strong the monster pull inside of him was. It tugged at something forbidden and buried inside of Sam. Something that remembered what it meant to be the freak, to have everyone pushing against you and to feel like no matter what you did, you kept outing yourself for the animal you were, under your skin.

            Sam cleared his throat. “All right, so, what d’you think happened here?”

            “This place definitely has all the signs of a Mohera’s feeding grounds. I’ve seen it before.” John brushed past Sam and dabbed at the dried bloodstains on the wall. He gave it a sniff, his forehead wrinkling. “Vampire blood.”

            “You sure?” Sam demanded.

            “Yeah. Smells dead.” John flecked the blood from his fingertips.

            Sam swept the wall with a glance, his eyes going for the immediate patterns that showed how the confrontation, whatever it was, had gone down: looked like the blood had been blown backwards from the middle of the alley. Like someone had been—Sam swallowed—exploded. Violently.

            “Ugh.” He swept the alley with another glance; paused.

            He knelt at the base of the wall, his eyes following a second smear and a galaxy of bloody speckles on the bricks.

            “This pattern’s not right.” He said intently.

            “What?” John crouched beside him.

            “Look at this. This smudge,” Sam gestured to it. “It doesn’t match the rest of the bloodflow. Whatever happened to that monster, it was like it—burst apart.” Sam straightened up, rolling a twinge from his shoulders. “And it wasn’t alone.”

            “Atta boy, Sam.” John hunched onto his feet and Sam tried to squash down the glint of pride in his chest, rising beside him. “And you’re right. This isn’t monster blood.” He swept his hand down the banner of rusty red. “It’s human.”

            “You sure?”

            “Positive.” John’s eyes pulled taut at the corners. “The Mohera made two kills.”

            “It killed…a _human_?” Sam demanded. “ _Why_?”

            “That’s a good question.”

            A chilly ocean breeze chased itself down the wall, and Sam shuddered. Fighting a monster-killer was one thing. God help him, but Sam wasn’t so much worried about the Mohera devouring monster souls as he was about the people the monsters were turning to preserve themselves.

            But if this thing’s appetite was for human souls, too.

            “Sam?” John bumped Sam’s arm with his and nodded to the mouth of the alley; there were two uniformed officers peering at them from the street, and they didn’t look particularly happy to see a couple of foreigners crashing their crime scene.

            “Uh. We should go.” Sam said.

            “Up and over.”

            Sam’s boots found traction easily on the slatted bricks and he heaved himself over the top of the wall, dropping down on the other side with John right behind him. They hurried across a sleepy street and followed a couple switchback sidewalks toward their motel. Sam shouldered John off the road and into a knickknacks shop when they almost passed a police officer on the street.

            “As if it’s not bad enough, being hunted in our _own_ country.” John grumbled, sliding a hand back through his hair. 

            “Let’s just hang out for a minute.” Sam said, wending his way through a couple aisles of cheaply-made souvenirs. The checkout counter was half-buried in a sea of manga stands and newspapers, and the headline picture almost leaped off the page at Sam in passing.

            The same alley they’d just left; a police officer’s lithe frame almost blocking the view. But under his arm there was that same pattern of blood that Sam and John had just seen.

            Sam slapped one of the papers down on the counter and the cashier—red-gold hair, sweet smile, really pretty, actually—pulled it closer and said something really fast in Japanese.

            “Uh,” Sam plucked up a smile and pulled out a handful of dollar bills. Realized a few seconds too late that he hadn’t asked Bobby for some yen. “Sorry, I’m, uh…”

            “From out of town?” The girl asked, grinning. “It’s all right, we accept American money here.”

            “You…are a lifesaver.” Sam said earnestly, and she laughed.

            “No, no…just good business.” She took the bills from him and started counting out however much she needed. “Not many Americans come here since the floods. Are you a missionary?”

            Sam smiled and shook his head. “Not really.”

            “A tourist then. Hm.” She handed him his change, and the newspaper. “Please be careful. It’s very dangerous in Kitaibaraki these days.”

            Sam watched her closely for a second, wondering if…maybe…she knew more than she was letting on. But she kept up that beatific smile and Sam finally just managed a nod and a, “Thanks.”

            John was waiting for him at the front of the store, watching for any signs of trouble through the glass front window. He smirked when Sam stopped beside him, an expression Sam had rarely seen on his dad’s face.

            “I saw you with that cashier, Sammy. She’s cute.”

            “Shut up.” Sam scowled. “Coast clear?”

            “We should be able to make a straight shot for the motel.”

            “Then let’s go.”

 

 

            Sam threw the newspaper down on the three-legged round table of the motel room, sniffing against the extra-greasy smell that meant someone had gone out for food. Dean was asleep on the bed, using his jacket for a pillow; Rufus was nowhere to be seen.

            “What’s that God-awful smell?” Sam demanded.

            “Deep-fried tofu, what else?” Bobby flipped the newspaper over, picked up a golden-brown cube from a white plastic carton and bit into it. “Whadja bring me?”

            “Something you can translate. We hope.” Sam sat on the foot of the empty bed, kicking the leg of the other one to rattle his brother awake. Dean jerked violently and sat up, pawing drool off his face with the back of his hand.

            “What’d I miss?” He yawned.

            _World War Three_ or _The Apocalypse_ would be pretty standard answers. “Tofu.”

            Dean wrinkled his nose. “Gross, man, I hate that stuff.”

            “Quit’cher bitchin’.” Bobby said absently, his focus on the newspaper. John sank into the chair across from him and rubbed his face with his hands.

            “Where’s Rufus?” Sam asked.

            “Ugh, went out to get some actual _sheets_.” Dean rumpled his shoulders. “I’m probably infected with fleas.”

            Before Sam could answer, the door opened; Rufus shouldered in with five bags slung over his arms, which he dropped unceremoniously all over the floor.

            “Pillows, blankets, sleeping bags.”

            Dean clapped his hands together decisively. “I am so there.”

            While Dean was unpacking the spoils, Rufus sat beside Sam on the bed. “Any luck on the crime scene?”

            “A little more than I would’ve liked.” John said bluntly.

            Dean paused in the action of unfolding a sheet. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            Bobby’s head didn’t move, but Sam saw his eyes slide up toward John.

            The Shifter sighed. “It’s worse than we thought. A lot worse.” He rubbed his hands together. “It looks like the Mohera is slaughtering humans.”

            Rufus groaned; Bobby spat an incredulous, “ _What_?”

            “Aw, you gotta be _kidding_ me.” Dean threw the sheet onto the floor, walked back to the bed and sank down on its, staring at John. “So now we’ve got monster-on-monster _and_ monster-on-human violence?”

            “That’s how it’s shaping up.”

            Dean shook his head slowly. “You sure the _Mohera_ killed a human. I thought this thing only went after monster souls!”

            “So did I, Dean. I don’t _know_ what it’s doing. Your dad never faced anything like this before, and all I can tell you is the damned thing is _hungry_.”

            “Define ‘ _hungry_ ’.” Bobby’s careful tone almost made the words a challenge.

            John rocked his head up and met Bobby’s eyes. “Maybe hungry enough to take human souls.”

            Sam and Dean exchanged a glance and said in unison:

            “Crap.”

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

_May 7 th, 2012_

_Shinohara Bekken, Kitaibaraki, Japan_

“So, no human brain, means…no sense of self-preservation?”

            It was sunset, the cool breeze from the harbor blowing in through the open balcony. And with Bobby’s help they were all getting a crash-course in Japanese. Which was about the last thing Dean wanted to be doing, so he ended up zoning out and looking at the pictures in every newspaper article Bobby shoved across his plate. And that made picking up a pattern a lot easier than he’d figured it would be.

            John was right about this city being in a state of emergency; but after the whole, tsunami, nuclear crisis, kiss-your-ass-goodbye catastrophe the year before, this was more like an underground movement. No huge waves demolishing the whole place, no creeping death by radiation poisoning; this was a lot subtler and probably freaked a lot more people out.

            Disappearances; bloodstains the size of a quilt. The Mohera was leaving a spray of footprints behind it, island-hopping across Japan, and the damned thing wasn’t even _trying_ to cover its tracks. Which had prompted Dean’s question; which was earning him pissed-off stares from everyone else in the room.

            Dean held up one hand and frowned. “ _What_?”

            “Dean, c’mon, man, this isn’t funny.” Sam said tiredly, double-folding a newspaper article and tipping his chair back, scrubbing both hands down his cheeks. “A dozen murders in the last week. We don’t know how many of those are human.”

            “And the Mohera has no reason to hide itself.” John added. “It doesn’t know fear of anything other than the pit. And what’ve we got that can send it back there?”

            “Oh, well, a seraph sword, for one thing.” Dean said.

            “I must have missed that.” John leaned forward with one of those annoying indulgent looks on his face. “Where are you hiding it, again?”

            “Guys, stop.” Sam said.

            “We need to call Cass.” Dean addressed Sam, keeping his eyes on John. “Have him sniff out Meg. She’s got the sword, he can get it from her.”

            “I already tried. Twice.” Sam said. “Wherever he is, he’s probably up to his neck in angels. He can’t help us right now.”

            “So, let’s stop complainin’ about what we _can’t_ do,” Bobby butted in. “And worry about what we _can_. Whaddya say?”

            “Yeah, yeah.” Dean shook the newspaper open again, letting his eyes skim over the pictures and ignore the writing. He was smart, sure, but he wasn’t nerdy, academic-smart like Sam. Learning a new language took him more than a _day_. And being pissed made focusing a lot harder.

            Wasn’t even sure what he was pissed at; a little bit of everything. The crappy motel room, everything being in Japanese, the Mohera for being so hard to find. Sam for trying to hide the seizure he’d had the night before, and the way John had covered for him, shaking his head when Dean had tried scooting closer to talk to his shaking brother.

            Oh, yeah, and the toilet was broken. That was a pretty big pain in the ass, too.

            Dean missed his baby. And cheeseburgers. And this was just Day One.

            “This ugly thing moves _fast_ , Bobby.” Rufus laid down his article and scratched absently at his forehead. “What’s the plan to get ahead of it?”

            “I only got one.” Bobby said with that Brace-Yourselves tone that usually meant someone was playing live bait.

            “I volunteer.” Dean put in before anyone could say anything; Sam shot him a world-class bitchface and Dean shrugged. “What? I’m bored. This job sucks so far.”

            “It’s about to jump up a whole level of crazy.” Bobby warned him.

            “Just spit it out, for God’s sake!” Rufus snapped.

            Bobby pulled his trucker cap off and scratched his head. “We gotta find some monsters, and wait for the Mohera to come after them.”

 

 

            “And I repeat: this job is totally out to left field.”

            “Tell me about it.

            Sam and Dean were leaning back on the hood of the car, watching the sunset spidering behind a huge Shinto shrine. It was a pretty swanky ride, something Bobby had bartered off a guy on the street for cheap. Probably coughed out enough black smoke to choke people all the way up in China, and the thing took hills like a snail. Baby coulda eaten it alive.

            Made for a good front-row seat, though.

            “How’d John smoke these suckers out, again?” Dean asked, shoving his hands deep in his jacket pockets; the shrine was backed by woods and with the sunset, in a foreign country, felt like he had a hundred pairs of eyes on him.

            “He said it was easy.” Sam gave him a loose shrug. “That vampire the Mohera killed in the alley, John figured it had a nest. This shrine’s got history. Women, walking in, never coming out again. And apparently the whole place smells like vampires.”

            “Eau de Bloodsucker.” Dean leaned his head back.

            “You two done swapping gossip?” Bobby joined them, shoving a knife into Sam’s hand. “In case things get ugly.”

            “When _don’t_ they? Thanks,” Dean added as John passed him a machete. “So we tie these things up and use ’em for live bait?”

            “Unless you have a better plan.” John said.

            “I’m not much for playing the patron saint of vampires.” Dean swung the blade lazily in one hand. “Still owe these bitches some payback for the forty-eight-hours of hell they put me through.”

            Sam cleared his throat, guiltily, and Dean pretended not to hear him.

            The shrine was on the fancy side, as far as Dean could tell; with a swooped arch out front, a rutted stone path leading up to the main building. The shrine itself had two levels, a bowed roof, and an overgrowth of weeds. Place looked like no one had been there to pray in a couple of years.

            Didn’t look much like a vampire nest. More like the kinda place where some Asian hobos would be squatting.

            “You sure we get the right place?” Dean asked, while Bobby opened the back door of the car and nudged Rufus awake.

            “Ninety-eight percent sure.” John slid his knife into the waistband of his belt. Dean watched him, smirking slightly, shaking his head.

            “I don’t get it, man. I thought the whole hunting scene freaked you out. Now you’re like the Clint Eastwood of the business. What changed?”

            “Tracking the Mohera doesn’t exactly keep me out of harm’s way, Dean.” John pointed out. “I did what had to be done to protect people. I adapted. My kind are good at that.” He stalked toward the shrine.

            “Smooth, Dean.” Sam said flatly; he followed John, and Dean, rolling his eyes, hurried after them.

            They didn’t bother sneaking in. Vampires had a pretty good sense of hearing and smell, and wicked eyesight in the dark. Trying to get the jump on them would be like lassoing the Tasmanian Devil: damned near impossible and stupid even if you could pull it off. Element of surprise or not, they had no idea how big the nest was—if there even was a nest—so there was every chance they were outnumbered.

            Just because they couldn’t ninja their way in, though, didn’t mean that had to go in stupid. The five of them fell into a seamless pattern; Sam, Dean and John swapping turns in the lead, Bobby and Rufus covering each other. They made it up the stone path and onto the crumbling porch of the shrine, ducking down behind the overhanging leaves off a huge weeping willow. John sized up the screened door, then looked up at Bobby.

            “You and Rufus go around back. Keep each other covered. I’ll take the boys straight in, try to flush the vampires out your way.”

            “Sounds suicidal.” Bobby said. “We’ll be there.”

            “Good.” John switched his focus. “Sam? Dean? You ready?”

            “We’re not kids, John. We can handle it.” Sam snapped, and Dean rolled his eyes again. Rufus and Bobby slipped off the porch and disappeared into the undergrowth.

            John straightened. “All right. On my six and ten. Watch each other’s backs.”

            Dean elbowed Sam. “You good?”

            “I’m great. Why?” That answer came way too fast.

            “Nothing. You just seem a little tense? Hm? You sure your head’s in the game?”  

            “My head’s fine, Dean. No Hell-flashes. Let’s just get this over with.”

            The inside of the place was pretty nice; totally dusty, but it was obvious somebody used to keep it top-of-the-line, and Dean could respect that. He tucked in close behind John and Sam, his flashlight in hand but keeping it turned down low, cupping his hand over it every couple seconds to keep the glare down. They moved toward a creaking set of short stairs leading up to the loft.

            And Dean backed straight into Sam.

            “Ow! Crap, Sammy, watch where you’re—”

            “Dean.”

            He knew that tone; definitely warning him to shut his cakehole. Dean swung the flashlight full force the direction Sam was looking.

            The girl at the base of the stairs hissed raggedly, throwing up an arm to shield her eyes; she looked like she was about fifteen, way too thin and way too _freaking_ pale; like she was made of porcelain or something. Dean couldn’t take his eyes off of her, didn’t even move until John shoved the flashlight down, angling the beam at the floor. It still rebounded off of her, but it wasn’t as strong. John held his dagger up in front of him but lifted his free hand, too: warning her to stand down,

            She squinted up at them and said something fast and hard-edged, in Japanese.

            Dean glared at her. “English, mother-fu—”

            Sam crunched Dean’s toes with the heel of his boot.

            “Do you speak English?” John asked, with that steely-hard voice that Dean had always associated with his ass getting whupped for something.

            The girl regarded them sideways. “A little.”

            “Good.” John lowered his knife a few inches. “We know what you are. We know what’s after you.”

            “You are…hunters?” The girl asked.

            “How’d you know that?” Dean demanded.

            Sam stepped forward, laying a warning hand back on Dean’s chest. “We are. Hunters. My name’s Sam, this is my brother, Dean, and our friend, John.” He pulled on that puppy-dog smile that melted hearts the world over. “What’s your name?”

            She stared at him for a second, then wiped her face on her sleeve. “Takara.”

            “That’s a pretty name.”

            Takara didn’t look impressed by Sam’s crap. “You say you know what hunts us?” She looked at John, and he nodded curtly. “It…kills many.”

            “How many?” Dean asked, not even trying to thaw out the iciness in his voice. He had an issue with vampires and that wasn’t gonna change anytime soon, even if they were cute little girls.

            “Too many.” Takara replied.

            “How _many_?” John echoed, stepping forward, and it was like lightning moving hard and fast under the surface of this whole exchange. Dean could _feel_ it, how close this girl was to flipping out on them.

            “Nine.” Takara finally spat.

            “My God.” Sam said, softly.

            “You know what it is?” Takara asked, and John nodded again. “Help us.”

            “That’s not exactly why we’re here, sweetheart.” Dean said, deflecting, because he didn’t like how she was staring John down.

            “Then why?”

            Sam shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat.

            Takara’s eyes narrowed. “Bait.”

            None of them could really deny that one.

            Takara shrieked, a really loud, _really_ annoying high-pitched sound, and ten seconds later they had eight vampires circling around them.

            “Oh, _great_.” Dean turned in, putting his back to Sam’s, and John edged toward them with his knife up. “Any more bright ideas?”

            “Don’t get blood in your mouth?” Sam suggested.

            Dean heaved a growl out of the back of his throat and met the first vampire head-on with an uppercut from his knife.

            Wasn’t much of a battle; the vampire went down before Dean could close the distance. He pulled up short, staring down at the thing’s headless corpse, and—

            Holy crap, the whole room was full of people in jet-black jumpsuits and masks. With frigging _Katanas_ , whacking off vampire heads like it was nothing. Dean just stood there, dumbstruck.

            _Ninjas_. Their asses had gotten pulled out of the fire by legitimate _ninjas_.

            It was so badass Dean felt himself grinning.

            One of the ninjas whistled, and the rest of them just bolted, leaving one behind. Judging by the smokin’ body, it was a girl. She ripped her blade out of Takara’s severed neck, turned her head briefly toward the Winchesters, and then bolted.

            “Hey, hang on a second!” Dean took off after her, his knife still in his hand.

            The girl was fast, shoving out the back door—no sign of Bobby or Rufus, not good—and darting straight for the forest. Problem was, that nifty little jumpsuit wasn’t all that bendy. She got hung up hopping a fence on the edge of the shrine and Dean managed to catch up, vaulting over the railing and grabbing her shoulder

            “He-hey, slow down there for a sec—”

            He felt something cold and hard jam into his stomach, and then the ringing retort of gunfire swarmed his ears.

            Pain exploded through Dean’s entire world, flooding his vision red. The shotgun round blasted him back against the fence and tore holes in his skin, his back driving up hard against rusted nails and _holy crap that freaking hurt_ , he slumped to the ground and lay stunned, his entire world swimming.

            He was pretty sure he blacked out for a minute, because the next thing he knew there was a hand jostling shoulder and someone shouting in his ear. Dean shook his head, choking in a breath, and peeled his eyes open again.

            Bright moonlight, night sounds, and this chick standing in front of him, cupping her face in both hands, kinda like she was in pain. It took noticing that for Dean to realize John was the one screaming at him.

            “Dean—you with me? _Dean_!”

            “M’here.” Dean’s words got tangled up coming out.

            “Lie still. She shot you.”

            Right. With the gun that was somehow in John’s hand and angled over Dean’s shoulder toward the ninja-girl. Dean had a feeling he knew how all that had gone down: John freaking out, grabbing the gun and socking her in the face.

            Dean knew this kind of itchy, grinding pain.

            “Rock salt.” He groaned, grabbing the bottom rung of the fence and heaving himself up until he was sitting, one arm curled around the pepper-spray abrasions on his midsection. “You’re carrying a gun full of _rock-salt_?”

            “How else would you shoot an Akuma?” The girl spat, and she had a high, indignant voice that made Dean cock his head back. He’d sorta been imagining something closer to Whoopi Goldberg or Michelle Yeoh.

            “The hell’s an Akuma?” Dean spat. The pain made him sound pissed; all right, he _was_ pissed. The girl had shot him, for God’s sake. Rock salt or not, it hurt like a sonuvabitch.

            “Dean? John?” Bobby’s voice, coming from somewhere behind them; Dean twisted around to peer through the gaps in the fence, saw the rest of their little army on the move toward them. Sam got there first, hopping the fence and crouching beside Dean.

            “Hey. You good?”

            “I’m awesome. Help me up.” Dean cocked his arm and Sam grabbed it, dragging him onto his feet. John rose slowly beside them, keeping his sights pinned on the girl. She unfolded from her crouch, too, and yanked her mask off, letting loose a long black tangle of hair and showing a busted nose.

            “Who’s _this_?” Rufus demanded, climbing the fence with Bobby on his heels.

            “Dude, she’s a _ninja_.” Dean said.

            “I am not a _ninja_.” The girl tucked her mask under her arm. “My name is Kyoshi. My people call me Key. We are hunters. Like you.”

            “Hunters don’t usually do, _this_ ,” Dean pointed to his damaged midsection. “To other hunters!”

            Sam cleared his throat. “Actually, Dean, that happens to us a lot. Remember when Jo—?”

            “Shut up, Sam!”

            “I didn’t mean any harm.” Key tilted her head to one side. “But hunters should not be out roaming the countryside after dark. Not when the Great Akuma is feeding.”

            “Yeah, you mentioned that. The hell is an _‘akuma_ ’?” Dean rubbed his tender ribs and glared at her.

            “Means ‘demon’, Dean.” Bobby filled in. “Though in this case I’m guessin’ it’s pretty all-inclusive.”

            Key nodded. “This creature is not like any we have faced. We have seen _yajuu_ take their true forms around it: werewolves have transformed as though it were a full moon. Vampires cannot hide their fangs. Shapeshifters will change appearance, between many of their past forms.”

            Sam shot John a glance past Dean; Dean swiveled his aching neck to follow his brother’s stare.

            John shook his head slightly, and Sam relaxed.

            Key didn’t miss it. “He is a Shifter?” She made a quick, unconscious movement toward John, and Sam and Dean reacted simultaneously, putting themselves between her and the Shifter.

            “He’s with us.” Sam said, and he had that dangerous, don’t-screw-with-me tone. The last time Dean had ignored it, he’d ended up getting his face thrown into a mirror. “Just give him a chance.”

            Key sized them up, frowning. “Why are you even _here_? This is not America, it is _not_ your hunting ground.”

            Dean pretty much felt John and Bobby giving each other a look behind his back.

            “We’re here to help.” Bobby said, finally. “Any way we can.”

            Key studied him for a second.

            “You should come with me.”

 

 

            It wasn’t a long walk, probably two miles through the forest. Dean picked bits of rock salt from his skin and kept his head down the whole time. Thinking things through.

Killing those vampires probably released their souls to Purgatory, out of Mohera’s reach. Kept them from getting exploded seven ways from Sunday, too; win-win situation, the bastards didn’t suffer and Mohera didn’t get stronger. Nobody else got turned, either.

            Only problem was, they’d lost their bait.

            “We’re here.” Kyoshi pushed her way out of the cover and Dean was right on her heels, stopping dead in his tracks beside her.

            This mansion was huge. Beverly Hills huge. Turrets, pointed roofs kinda like the shrine. Tall windows, gold trim. The works. Looked pretty new, too.

            “Whoa. You guys _live_ here?” Dean demanded, and Key nodded. “Huh.”

            “What?”

            “Nothing.” Dean shifted his jaw. “I just figured ninjas lived in holes in the ground, or something.”

            “We are not _ninjas_.” She sounded annoyed. “We are descended from a long line of hunters.”

            “Fancy.” Dean blinked slowly at her. “Well, I’m Dean. The Sasquatch is my brother, Sam, and the Shifter’s John. The guy with the hat and the surly attitude is Bobby and the crotchety old geezer is his life partner, Rufus.”

            “I could beat the fear of God into you, boy.” Rufus snarled.

            “Yeah, but you won’t.”

            Key shook her head and headed for the mansion; Dean got the feeling she didn’t have that great a sense of humor.

            The inside of the mansion was pretty roomy; not much furniture. Key stopped right inside the front door and whistled, a couple quick chirps that sounded kinda like the first few notes of _Smoke on the Water_.

            Guys in black started trickling down from the balcony above their heads and rooms off to the side. Eyebrows sliding up, Dean stayed in close to Sam. Just in case something was about to go down and the whole deal would get turned on their heads.

            One of the guys started talking to Key—Japanese again—and she answered, fast. Dean thought he heard his name in there somewhere.

            “Think we can trust ’em?” Sam murmured, tilting his head toward Dean’s.

            “Hell, no.” Dean kept shifty eyes on Key. “Not like we got a choice, though. These guys are good.”

            Sam pulled a sturgeon-face and straightened up as Key walked back toward them.

            “My brothers have agreed to speak with you. Please, come in.”

            Dean’s face split in a wide smile; couldn’t help it. “Dude, we are working a case with _ninjas_ ,” He said to Sam, heading for the staircase.

            Next thing he knew Key had him shoved up against the wall with her arm crammed against the back of his neck. “Do not call us ninjas again, or we will show you what _ninjas_ can do when their clan is disrespected.”

            “Awesome.” Dean muttered, his cheek mashed against the wall.

            Key let him go and stormed up the staircase. Dean rolled the stiffness from the back of his neck and stared after her.

            “It’d probably be better if you kept your mouth shut from now on, Dean.” John suggested, clapping him on the shoulder in passing. Dean flipped him off, subtly, behind his back. “Do that again and I’ll pull that finger out of joint.”

            Dean mulled it over; figured John could probably do it, too. He settled for a gross imitation of John’s stride, which earned him a bitchface from Sam strong enough to burn a hole through the ozone.

            Bobby sighed. “Idjits.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

_May 8 th, 2012_

_Shinden_ _Mansion, Kitaibaraki, Japan_

“These are my brothers: Nobuo, Wataru, Ryutaro, Rakuin, and Mamoru. The others are on a scouting mission. They will return shortly.”

            Kyoshi led them up a wide staircase on the left side of the vestibule, onto the balcony of the second floor. Five hunters, inconspicuously dark-haired and narrow-faced, lounged against railings and on a low-slung couches. But ever from a distance of several feet, Sam could see their tension; living life like a hurricane of battle-strategy wrapped inside human skin, Sam knew the look.

            “Would you care for some wine? Sake, perhaps?” Key pulled open the door of an olive-green minifridge shoved against the wall. It looked so out of place, Sam was genuinely surprised that it seemed to be working.

            “Sake?” Dean raised his eyebrows, sweeping the room with a glance. “Yeah, I’d love some—”

            “I don’t think so.” John cut him off rapidly. “We’re on the job, Dean.”

            Dean pulled that irritated, pouty look he always got when someone stopped him from making a universally terrible decision. Sam ducked his head to hide a smile.

            “We’re just fine, thank you.” Rufus said coolly.

            Key shrugged, pulled out a tall-necked bottle of wine from the fridge and shoved it closed behind her. She retrieved a stack of shallow, wide-rimmed, palm-sized bowls from one of the cabinets and started pouring.

            “So, these are your brothers, huh?” Dean asked. “All of ’em?”

            Key rolled her eyes. “It is _metaphorical_.” She set the bottle on the counter and sat on the foot of one of the couches. “We were raised in this life together. Our families hunted together when they were children.”

            Sam frowned. “How far back does this go?”

            “Generations.” The guy beside Key fixed Sam with an unblinking stare.

            Key took a delicate sip of wine. “I was taught to wield a katana when I was four years old. My brothers and I trained as a unit; we’ve watched over our country for decades now.”

            “The whole _damn_ country?” Bobby said skeptically, and Key nodded. “Now, that’s impressive.”

            “We have money set aside.” Key said with a small smile. “And we have our methods of travel.”

            “Eh, some secrets should _stay_ secrets.” Rufus mumbled.

            “It’s never been a particularly dangerous allocation until now.” Key’s eyes took on a distant kind of reflection. “Smaller _yajuu_ are standard game. They are almost, easy.” She shook her head. “And then the Great Akuma came.”

            “That’s what brought us here.” Sam told her.

            “I’m aware.” Key set her bowl on the floor. “It slaughters without mercy. Any and every _yajuu_ that it comes across. So the _yajuu_ have been turning humans, infecting them in droves.”

            “Same as back home.” Dean said.

            Key didn’t seem to hear him. “I fear the Great Akuma is becoming more mindless as it feeds.”

            “Well, this thing’s not a demon, sweetheart. It’s _Mohera_.” Dean said. “It’s a monster. The first monster, a dinosaur or something that went darkside when Michael threw Lucifer into his Cage.”

            “Lucifer?” Key cocked her head.      

            Dean blew out a breath. “Lady, where were _you_ guys two years ago?”

            “I am not worried about what happened two years ago.” Key said frigidly. “I am worried about _now_ , and what this,” She scrunched her face and took  a few seconds to spit the word out, “ _Mohera_. Is doing.”

            “The monsters are not our only concern.” The man beside her rumbled; Sam wondered which brother he was.

            “How do you mean?” Bobby asked slowly.

            “You are not the first hunters we have crossed paths with in recent days.” Key admitted. “Others have tracked the Great Akuma here. In truth,” She crossed her arms on her knees. “Some of their methods worry me.”

            “No offense, but we are _all_ hunters, here.” Rufus said.

            “And some hunters use,” Key fixed her sights on John. “Impromptu methods to achieve their ends.”

            John’s head ducked, a glare tugging his eyes tight at the corners. He didn’t flinch, and Sam felt the tension mounting under the surface. And tensed himself, knowing that if something exploded, suddenly, and it turned to a fight, he would be backing John’s play no matter how strong these ninja-hunters were.

            To his relief, it didn’t get that far; Bobby cleared his throat and John loosened up a little bit, twisting his head away.

            “I need some air.”

            He disappeared down the stairs, and Sam heaved a sigh.

            “We’ll be right back.” He gave Dean’s shoulder a shove, turning him toward the top of the stairs.

            “Are we seriously gonna have a warm, fuzzy moment with this guy?” Dean hissed on their way to the first floor. Sam gave him a Shut-Up-And-Follow-My-Lead look, and they pushed the screen out of their way and stepped out onto the wrap-around porch.

            John was sitting on the top step, his clasped hands resting against this forehead, elbows on his knees. Sam and Dean exchanged a glance, and then Sam sank down on the step next to John, his long legs sprawling out. Dean leaned against the support beam that held up the roof, beside them.

            “Somethin’ on your mind?” His voice, gruff, and he kept looking away from John. Sam stared at the trees, his mind wrapping itself around the peace of the moment; ignoring the apprehension that stuttered underneath, and that subtle unbalanced feeling under the surface of his own calm that usually preceded a flash of Hell.

            He was getting too used to this, too fast. Almost resigned, to the fresh world of torture that was always lurking in the back of his mind.

            John didn’t answer, for a couple minutes. Dean rocked his had to one side, and cleared his throat. “Who cares what that uptight chick says? You’re a hunter, y’know, you’re in the trenches with the rest of us. She can cram it.”

            A smile tugged its way onto Sam face, and he looked up at Dean, briefly. His brother was staring up at the faraway pinpricks of the stars in the sky.

            John snorted a humorless laugh. “Dean. I’m not a hunter.”

            “Don’t say that.” Sam murmured.

            “No. Sam, I am a _Shifter._ In this case, everything else comes after that.” John pulled his hands slowly down his face, then dropped them onto his knees and met Sam’s eyes in the semidarkness. “The Mohera sniffs out my kind. I’m more in danger than any of you.” He laughed, quietly. “It’s no wonder that girl wants me out of the picture. I’m a walking target.”

            Dean sniffed. “Yeah, well, she tries to make a move on you and I’ll give her a serious beatdown.”

            Sam chuckled. “Pretty sure she could kick your ass, man.”

            John smiled, but it didn’t quite touch his eyes. His gaze raked over the trees, and he frowned. “It’s close.”

            Sam stiffened. “What?”

            “The Mohera?” Dean unfolded from his post by the edge of the porch, walked over to stand behind Sam.

            “Relax. It hasn’t picked up our scent.” John dragged in a long breath, his chest swelling. “There must be wards around this mansion. Something to repel it.”

            “Ninjas know their stuff.” Dean sounded appreciative.

            “So, what’s it doing?” Sam shifted on the step, wishing he could see the Mohera, wherever it was, to get a read on it. Half of hunting was being able to assess your quarry and learn its habits and intricacies. Fighting blind wasn’t exactly high on Sam’s list of favorite pastimes.

            “It’s moving through the trees.” John said, tensely, his focus riveted completely on the encroaching forest. “It must’ve found the vampire nest. And the bodies.”

            “So it knows we’re on to it,” Sam said, with a harsh, savage spurt of pleasure. He tried to tell himself that that was how every hunter felt, at some point or another: thrilled to see their prey on the run. But he thought, maybe, that was just the part of him that had been born for this life. The part he’d been fighting since he was just a kid.

            “It’s going to be one unhappy camper.” John said. “I don’t think the Mohera is used to being thwarted.”

            Dean stayed quiet for a minute. “Maybe that’s what we gotta do.”

            “Do what?” Sam looked up at him. “Thwart it?”

            “Exactly.” Dean’s lips curled edgily. “Sam, if this thing’s the indestructible Achilles of monsters, then we gotta piss it off. Make it slip up.”

            “Make it show us its heel.” Sam said, a catching on.

            “Exactly.” Dean flashed a full-on, megawatt grin.

            “You boys are forgetting something.” John sounded faintly amused. “Doing that means working with the ninjas.”

            Dean shot Sam a pained, long-suffering look, then pulled on his game-face. “Hey, whatever works.”

            Sam was about to answer when a sharp, feral coldness skittered down his spine. He turned back toward the trees, pulling himself to his feet beside his brother.

            His breath seemed to burn cold on the still night air.

            “This thing’s a badass.” Dean said quietly.

            And Sam had to agree.

 

 

            In the end, they had to stay at the Shinden family mansion overnight; they didn’t have much choice. John reported the Mohera was still in the prowl, between them and their cheap car. And for all the dirty looks the other hunters were giving him, Sam noticed they were awfully quick to take John’s word for it.

            There was something to be said for the convenience of having a Shifter on your team, even if they were all hypocrites.

            The rest of Key’s team returned after midnight; Key fired off half a dozen more names that Sam didn’t even bother trying to commit to memory, and then she told them to find a place downstairs to hole up for the night.

            Not the warmest welcome they’d ever gotten.

            Rufus and John tossed around the idea of just making a run for it, past the Mohera and out to the car, but Sam knew it was just bluster. It was too late and they were too tired and besides, Dean was starting to show the soreness from Key’s attack and the last thing any of them wanted was to stick someone who was injured, smack into a fight.

            So they tucked themselves into a little alcove under the second story, where the wall cornered, right beside one of the bathrooms. And it was funny, to Sam, watching Rufus and Bobby nod off even when they were trying to stay awake. Pretty soon they were both down for the count, Rufus on the floor and Bobby slouched down with his shoulders crammed into the corner. John wasn’t too far behind, propped against the bathroom doorway, which would probably piss off anyone from Key’s group who needed to take a leak.

            Sam figured John wasn’t above that kind of vindication.

            Within thirty minutes it was just Sam and Dean still awake. Then again, that was how it always was. Sam sat with his back to one of the support posts holding up the balcony, and Dean stretched out on his side, using his jacket for a pillow. The amulet hung free of his shirt, glinting bright but tarnished in the moonlight spilling through the glass back wall.

            “You really think we can do it?” Sam asked, stretching his long legs out in front of him, hands resting on the tiled floor. “Make the Mohera chase itself in circles?”

            “Honestly?” Dean shrugged awkwardly. “I got no clue. What I do know is, we’re in the last quarter, here. Y’know, this is it, make-it-or-break-it. So we can’t back out. None of us can.”

            “So there’s no plan.”

            “Oh, there’s a plan.” Dean said, all gruff and bluster. Again. “Just gimmie a couple days to figure it out.”

            “We might not have that long before it comes after him, Dean.”

            The silence was a few beats too long. “Yeah, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Dean flipped over, nudged his head deeper into the jacket, and relaxed, or seemed to. And that was that. It was all Sam knew he would get out of his brother.

            His head tilting back, Sam watched the light move in timid strips across the ceiling. It had been a long time since he’d been in a house this large, or this nice; and with the memories of Stanford right fresh on his heels, it almost made him miss that life all over again.

            He must have dozed off, gotten lost on the edges of dreaming, because the next thing Sam knew he was jerking violently awake, his arm sweeping up, fingers snatching around a hand that was coming toward his face.

            He was almost nose-to-nose with Key, and the blanket in her hands plopped softly into Sam’s lap.

            “You were shivering.” She said, simply.

            Ashamed, Sam released her, and she stepped back.

            “I—thanks. Sorry. I didn’t mean to,” He nodded to the hand she was rubbing, her expression faintly indignant. “Sorry.” He twisted his hands into the blanket, dropping his eyes. “I’m not used to people sneaking up on me. I guess.”

            He heard Key sigh. “Then the fault is mine.”

            To Sam’s surprise, she sat down beside him, crossing her legs; she’d dressed down from the black armor that’d made Dean think she was a ninja in the first place. Sam had done a little studying up before they’d caught the plane in Sioux Falls, so he knew outfit she was wearing was a little outdated.

            “I thought most people didn’t even know hot to tie a kimono anymore?” Sam said with a flicker of a smile, looking at her sideways.

            “My brothers and I believe in the old ways.”

            “Hence the fridge?”

            He was surprised when Key laughed. “There are _some_ creature comforts no one can live without.”

            Sam tilted his head down, his mouth quirking. “Good point.”

            “May I ask you a question?”

            “I think you just did.”

            Key swept her glossy dark hair behind her shoulder, studying her stockinged feet. “Why do you hunt with that man? He is _katachi wo kaeru._ ”

            “Uh.” Sam paused. “Run that by me again?”

            “His is a Shapeshifter. One of the things we hunt.”

            “Right.” Sam draped the blanket loosely around his hips, still tugging absently at the corner of it. “That’s not exactly an easy question to answer.”

            “If you would rather sleep—” Key started to rise.

            “No, it’s fine. Uh.” Sam swallowed, trying to think of a delicate way of wording it. “My dad. He was—a lot like me. A hunter. Obsessive. Totally, blinded by revenge. And a few years ago, he was, uh,” Sam looked down, hating that familiar sharp heat that flared inside his chest. “There was a fight. A demon. Dean was in trouble, and dad, he didn’t make it.”

            “I’m sorry,” Key said, politely. “But I’m not sure how the Shapeshifter is a part of this story.”

            “’Bout a year before my dad died, he hunted a Shifter.” Sam rocked his head to one side. “ _That_ Shifter. It took on his form. Kind of by accident.”

            Key arched an eyebrow. “Strange. And so you are loyal to him?”

            “At first, I guess I was just sorta following my dad. Like when I was kid.” Sam admitted. “But now John’s a friend. Not just because of the way he looks, but…he got us out of a tight spot when we were hunting him with him. He’s been helping us ever since.”

            “Strange.” Key said, again, and she sounded like she meant it.

            Sam chuckled quietly. “Yeah. Well, Dean and I learned a long time ago that things are a little more complicated than just sticking a knife in the first thing you grab onto that has fangs.”

            Key narrowed her eyes. “And you find that that method is successful?”

“Well, not… _all_ the time.” Sam settled back against the doorpost. “But if it means we don’t kill something innocent, like John, then I’ll take it. And all the bumps on the head that come with it.”  

Key linked her arms loosely around her ankles. “You know our people are badly outmaneuvered. The Great Akuma—”

“Mohera.”

“That _creature_.” Key conceded. “It is more ancient and far more powerful than we are prepared to handle.”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

“But you still came after it?”

Sam couldn’t muster up a smile for that one; couldn’t really explain in casual conversation all the self-deprecation, all the need for vengeance and redemption that had led them there. It was a complicated story, written in blood and salt, signed with gunsmoke and fire. Sam could never make her understand.

“So, uh,” He cleared his throat. “What’s your story? You were born into the life?”

Key nodded, vaguely. “My mother was adopted by a missionary from America. My father saved her and my grandparents from a _mukujara._ He protected her for some time, before…” She trailed off, staring out the windows on the back wall.

Sam frowned. “Sorry.”

Key shrugged one shoulder. “It was many years ago. I’ve adjusted.”

Sam looked at John, asleep, leaning against the bathroom doorpost. “Doesn’t really go away, does it?”

Key rose to her feet, brushing her hands on her sides. “No. It doesn’t.” She gestured to the blanket. “I hope that will be enough.”

“No, it’s great. Thanks.”

Key bowed slightly. “Good night, Sam Winchester.”

“Yeah. ’Night.”

He watched Key walk toward the stairs; and had the weirdest feeling that, in spite of the way she carried herself, like a queen and a _leader_ , who lived and breathed a different culture and world than theirs—maybe, the gap between them wasn’t as enormous and unbreachable as Sam had thought.

The bitter sting of a familiar loss tended to bring people closer together.

Sam stretched out on his side, his feet almost touching Dean’s, and folded his arm under his head, closing his eyes. The blanket was too short, and too scratchy. But it was a kindness he hadn’t expected, and that made it priceless.

And it helped. A little; to snap awake from his nightmares to that, and to seeing Dean, John, Bobby and Rufus around him. It was the closest Sam had come in a long time to having every person he cared about, right there, where he could be sure they were safe. It made waking up every few hours easier, when the people he’d seen ripped to shreds in his dreams were alive and breathing beside him.

The night passed slowly, in spurts, for Sam, but it could have been much worse. And each time he drifted off it was with the grim knowledge that things couldn’t hang in-between like this for much longer. It was going to come down to a fight, sooner or later. And in that respect he was glad to have Kyoshi and her brothers on their side. Because a dozen well-trained hunters would be an unbelievable help.

As long as they could be trusted.

Separated from the mansion by hundreds of trees, the Mohera continued to prowl, searching for the elusive scent of a Shifter’s soul that it couldn’t quite follow.

           

 


	7. Chapter 7

_May 9 th, 2012_

_Shinden_ _Mansion, Kitaibaraki, Japan_

 

“You want us to do _what_?”

            Key glared at Bobby, rubbing her temples with her fingertips. “We want you to help us hunt a pack of werewolves.”

            “A pack?” Rufus frowned. “Werewolves don’t share their hunting grounds.”

            They were standing around a foldable table on the upstairs balcony, with a switchback map of a neighborhood unfolded in front of them. Dean rolled the achiness from his back, stretched, and rested his flat hands on the table, studying the bright red circle around one city block in particular.

            “Rufus is right, these things are solitary.” Dean met Key’s eyes across the table. “What’s the catch?”

            They’d been at the Shinden mansion for a day longer than Dean was really comfortable with; but heading back to the vampire shrine hadn’t exactly worked out the way they’d planned. The car had been smashed flat; probably by the Mohera. So a couple of the guys—Wataru and Rockman or Rasputin or whatever Key had called him—they were walking fifteen miles into town; for another car, Dean had figured.

            Obviously, no dice.

            “Key?” Sam said quietly, and Dean glanced at him; his brother hadn’t really been walking on eggshells around the boss lady since their first night in the mansion. Dean really needed to ask him about that.

            Key yanked her hair back over her shoulder. “We believe it’s a matter of strength in numbers. These werewolves are young, they’ve only just been turned. They’re banding together because they do not realize that—”

            “The Mohera can smell them.” John finished bleakly. “And the scent is stronger when they’re all together like that.”

            “So they’re walking around with a bulls-eye on their backs. Awesome.” Dean scruffed hand back through his hair. “What’s the plan? Track ’em down and ice ’em?”

            “It will not be easy.” Key admitted. “The cycle has already begun. We must take them in daylight. And more than that,” She pressed her lips together. “They are children. Bitten, we think, on their way home from their classes.”

            “Crap,” Dean muttered.

            “Yeah, and try bein’ subtle about _that_.” Bobby rubbed the side of his neck uneasily. “People tend to notice when you snatch a buncha kids off the street.”

            “You said they were just turned?” Sam asked, his fingers tapping a staccato jazzy beat on the tabletop. Key nodded. “How long ago?”

            “Tai-Shin found the signs of the turning less than a week ago. So, it must have been during the last lunar cycle.” The guy on Key’s right said; Dean was having a really hard time keeping up with all their names, but he thought that was Mamoru.

            “Then they haven’t actually wolfed out yet.” Sam met Dean’s eyes with an almost feverish look of hope. “What if we can stop them?”

            “Aw, Sam, _c’mon_!” Dean groaned.

            “No, wait, hear me out!” Sam insisted, and Dean shifted his jaw, biting down on a retort. “I know there isn’t a cure, Dean. But if we can get to them, _before_ the first time they change, maybe we can—I dunno, lock them up until the full moon wanes.”

            “What, and keep _doing_ that every month for the rest of their _lives_?”

            “Dean, they’re just kids!”

            “Sam.” Key said coldly. “I appreciate your compassion. But they must be stopped.”

            Sam narrowed his eyes. “So we _find a way around this_. It’s better than shooting them in the _heart_. If we can stopthem…”

            “We cannot keep them prisoner here.” Mamoru rumbled. “We would put the lives of every one of us in danger.”

            “Sam,” Bobby said. “I don’t like this anymore’n you do. But the man’s right. Not to mention the Mohera is gonna be sniffin’ those kids out. Just a matter of time until something gets to them. Better a bullet through the heart and a quick death than getting their insides exploded and their souls ripped out.”

            Sam pulled in a straggling breath through his nose, and looked at Dean; and Dean shook his head, subtly. This was a losing battle and Sam had to know it.

            Dean watched the change in his brother; Sam went from fighting-sides-up to relaxed in a split second. Great.

            “Right.” He shrugged. “Sure. Whatever you say, Bobby.”

            Dean rolled his eyes toward John; they both knew _that_ tone. Sam was raging freaking _pissed_ , he was just keeping it under wraps.

            “I see only one opportunity to take them.” Key pointed to the red circle on the map. “In this location, there is a field the children will cross to arrive at their homes.  If we move quickly and silently, we can stop them without being seen.”

            “Or heard.” Dean added. “Kids usually got a good set’a lungs.”

            “Tranquilize them.” John suggested. “Chasing them through a cornfield will be hard enough; we’ll never make a clean shot that way. And we’re _not_ going to let them suffer.” He cut a look toward Sam when he said it, but Sam was glaring at the map and didn’t notice.

            Figured.

            “Dean.” Key said, and he perked up. “Help me prepare the weapons.” She paused, then added stiffly, “ _Please_?”

            Dean smirked. “Lead the way.”

            She did; through a door on the first floor, down a flight of concrete steps and into a basement that was probably twice as big as the level above it. Nothing down there except the support beams and racks of weapons lining both walls. Dean had to hand it to them, these ninjas really knew how to stay stocked. Throwing stars, daggers, huge swords, spears. A lot of weapons Dean didn’t even have a name for, but he figured those were for wasting local nuisances.

            Key stopped near the back of the room and pulled a crossbow off the wall. There were seven more like it, all strung up on hooks. Key started checking over it, but she had this _look_ on her face.

            Dean cleared his throat. “You got something to say?”

            Key didn’t justify that with a glance. “Your brother. He’s upset.”

            Dean snorted. “When _isn’t_ Sam upset about something?”

            Key blinked up at him. “He is angry that we have to kill these werewolves?”

            Dean perched on an overturned box of ammunition, sighed. “Sam’s…kinda got a history with werewolves. It’s nothing personal, he doesn’t hate your guts for this, or anything. Guy’s just got his baggage. Like everyone else.”

            “But his love for monsters—”

            “Sam doesn’t look at it that way.” Dean cut her off. “It’s just not that black and white for him. It’s not humans,” He made a slotting gesture with both hands, “Monsters.” He rubbed his knees with his palms. “Sam looks at them and sees the people they used to be. Not the things they are now.” He tilted his head slowly back and forth. “Most of the time.”

            “That sort of thinking will be the death of him.” Key didn’t say it like a threat; just stating fact.

            Screw that. Dean had Winchester Logic.

            “Sam’s not dying.” He said bluntly; leaving off the whole, ‘ _again_ ’ speech. “I’m gonna keep him alive if it’s the last thing I do.”

            Key stared at him, like she thought he was out of his mind. “You really value your life that little?”

            “Oh, I know I’m important.” Dean cracked a smile, but it slipped off pretty fast. “Sam’s just more important.”

            “That attitude is highly destructive.”

            Dean shrugged. “You’re preachin’ to the choir, sweetheart. Little late for me to learn that lesson.” He shoved the crate back with his foot and hiked down another one of those crossbows. “So, what’re we dealing with?”

            Key stared at him for a few more seconds, weighing him out, Dean figured, before she pulled a box off the nearest shelf.

            “These darts are tipped with a neuromuscular toxin. It causes paralysis in seconds, and lasts for nearly four hours.”

            “Enough time to nail these kids and bring ’em someplace safe.”

            “Where we can then, finish them.” Key slid a dart into the crossbow.

            “Almost sounds like you don’t give a crap.” Dean said idly, loading his own crossbow. It’d been a few years since he’d shot one of these things.

            “I cannot afford to.” Key replied. “Many of the monsters in my country target children. They understand the sympathies that are integral in human nature: to protect their young.” She swung the crossbow’s sights toward him so fast, Dean barely had time to duck before she moved on past him, firing a dart into the wall beside his head. “We learned long ago to be unsympathetic.”

            “Well, that’s,” Dean glared at the dart, then yanked it out of the pinprick hole in the concrete. Girl was a good shot. “How’s that workin’ out for you?”

            Key blinked slowly. “We are all still alive.”

            Dean tossed the dart to her. “Yeah, well, let’s get something straight: me and Sam, we’re not the same kind of hunter as you and your brothers. And we’re not part of your little Bruce Lee clan over here. So if we say we’re doing something, _we’re doing it_. And that’s it.”

            Key pressed in close to him, resting the tip of the dart against his jugular. Dean’s eyes slid toward it, then fell back on hers.

            “You follow my instructions,” She said, softly, and dammit if she didn’t sound _menacing_ , too. “Or you won’t be able to keep your brother alive.”

            Dean’s hands moved, one snagging her wrist, the other one plucking the dart off his skin. He threw her arm back down to her side but kept the dart trapped between two fingers, waggling it tantalizingly in front of her.

            “We’ll see about that.” He pitched his voice low and flicked the dart underhand across the floor. “We done?”

            Key sized him up and finally nodded. “I believe we are.”

            “Great. Let’s go.”

 

 

            They drove half an hour, nine people crammed elbow-to-elbow in stuffy quarters, and Den hated every second of it. The only relief he got was the second they spilled out on the outskirts of Kitaibaraki, under a gunmetal gray sky with a promise of rain in the air. They were close to the school they were targeting, and there were a couple miles of open, high-grass field before the ground sloped down into a swath of trees, backing against the yards of the neighborhood.

Dean didn’t need to memorize the map the ninjas had showed them to know that was the place where the werewolf kids all lived. Hunting grounds, probably, for whatever Big-and-Furry had turned them. And like it or not, they weren’t getting home today.

First thing Key made a point out of: she didn’t trust any of them with a crossbow. So Dean ended up on kid-snatching detail with John, Bobby, Sam and Rufus while Key and three of her crouching tigers went hidden dragon in the long grass and took the shots.

            Felt an awful lot like getting cornered on the kid’s table, but if Dean was pissed, then Sam was downright scary-mad. Dean knew that look on his face and knew a punch in the kisser usually came after it.

            “Sam, there’s nothing we can do.” Dean said for probably the hundredth time. They were crouched close to the edge of the field, with Bobby and Rufus on their nine and three and John somewhere in front of them. They were pretty well spread out, but somehow Sam had ended up falling in with Dean. Same as always.

            “I know.” Sam said it like he meant it, but his expression stayed stony.

            “Look, Key’s a professional, Sam, but I don’t think she’s heartless. She doesn’t want these kids gettin’ ripped apart by the Mohera.”

            “Right.” Sam snorted. “She’s got such a _big heart,_ she won’t even try to find a way out.” Well, there was a little taste of what he was really thinking.

            “Let it go, Sam.” Dean insisted; ’cause arguing was just gonna drag them both in circles and be the world’s biggest distraction.

            Sam’s jaw shifted, jutted out, but he didn’t say anything.

            Dean almost felt bad. “Look, I get where you’re coming from, Sam. I do. But these things aren’t human anymore. And if they turn tonight, and bite someone else,” He shook his head. “The last thing any of us needs is a werewolf epidemic, right? Then it’s not just a group of kids, it’s _every_ kid.”

            “I _know_.” Sam said; and something in that tone told Dean that, yeah, Sam got it. And he was gonna keep being stubborn and keep arguing until he was blue in the face, and they were still gonna do this Key’s way.

            “All right.” Dean slid his gun out of his waistband, checked the rounds; full clip of silver bullets. He wouldn’t need it until they got the kids tranqued and in the back of the huge clunker van Wataru and Rockman had stolen when they went to town. And if that wasn’t the biggest cliché Dean had ever seen…

            “Hey.” Sam nudged Dean suddenly, pushing up onto his knees on the damp ground and nodding through the tall grass. Dean eased up beside him for a look.

            Sounds hit them first; running feet, shouts in Japanese. And then, laughing. These kids were laughing. Had no idea they were being stalked. What was coming for them.

            Dean didn’t mean to look at Sam; it just happened. And Sam was wearing that same expression that he always used to get when something was really, end-of-the-world wrong and it was too big for him and he needed Dean to _fix it_ , _now_.

            Dean looked away.

            They’d laid the plan out pretty well on the way over: as soon as Key took her first shot, Dean and Sam were supposed to move in. Stay low, so the other hunters wouldn’t mistake them for kids and take a shot; move the bodies out of the way and back toward the van, and wait there for everyone else.

            So when Dean heard that thumping vibration of a bolt releasing from a crossbow, he was already straightening up with Sam beside him before he’d heard the first scream.

            And realized something was wrong.

            Too many people were shooting up out of the grass; the kids were running scared, bolting in five different directions. No sign of Key or any of the other hunters. But there were a bunch of guys with weaved-in nylon sacks, chasing the kids down.

            The screaming slapped into Dean’s ears; he was trying to get his view straight, figure out what the hell was going on.

            “ _Go_!” Key’s cry unlocked Dean’s limbs and he darted a few feet toward the place where he’d seen the first werewolf fall, before he realized Sam wasn’t following him.

            Dean turned, slowing his stride, half-hopping back a couple steps. “Sam, c’mon!”

            “Dean—” Sam was staring after one of the sack-wielding guys who was linebacker-tackling a kid a couple yards away. His eyes were huge, glassy, his mouth slack.

            Then Sam just dropped; slammed down on the ground and Dean had a half-second to think, _crap, sonuvabitch, no no nonononono_ before John was there, shouldering him out of the way and dropping next to Sam, who wasn’t just blanking out from this seizure but actually _seizing_.

            “Get the kids! Go!” John ordered, pinning Sam’s shoulders down. Dean shook off his stupor, yanked out his gun and ran to the werewolf Key had dropped nearby. She was maybe eleven or twelve years old, still awake, just totally paralyzed. Staring up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes.

            Grimly, Dean knelt, putting one hand over her eyes. “Sorry, kid.”

            The gunshot was muffled against her sternum but Dean still felt the spray of blood wash over his face. He staggered onto his feet, wiping his sleeve over his cheeks, swinging around when he heard another gunshot. He saw Bobby straighten up, the front of his jacket soaked red. No point in being subtle, not with the kids raising hell, and bolting for the trees.

            Someone came crashing out of the grass on Dean’s right and he had his gun up and aimed before he realized it was Key.

            “Four got away!” She said, ignoring his weapon.

            Dean swore and plunged into the grass, getting himself half-tangled, lost inside of it before he heard rapid breaths that meant he was gaining on _someone_. He poured on the speed, smacking the grass out of his way with his arms, and piled into the person he was chasing without even realizing he was _that_ close.

            They went down hard, ricocheting off the ground and bouncing, and Dean had half a second to realize that this dude was way too big to be one of the werewolves, before the first blow hit him.

            An elbow jabbed into his ribs, backwards, knocking the wind out of him. The big guy flipped over fast and crushed Dean, then slithered off of him and punched him hard in the face, splitting his cheekbone with an—ow— _huge-ass_ ring on his middle finger. Dean’s head snapped sideways; the guy hauled him up and punched him again, socking his head back down on the ground. Dean’s vision erupted into a whole galaxy of sparkling pinpoints, but his senses didn’t fail him; he factored the next blow and blocked it clumsily with his arm, then heaved his weight up, bucking the guy off into the grass.

            In the time it took Dean’s attacker to get back on his feet, Dean had his gun in his hand; and when the guy came at him, Dean wheeled around and whacked the butt of the gun on his forehead, sending him reeling. Dean followed it up with a diaphragm kick, and the guy was down for the count, wheezing on the flattened grass.

            Dean took two hunched-over steps toward him, massaging his throbbing ribs, and then froze, recognition breaking through.

            “Oh, you gotta be kidding me.”

            With the first fat raindrops spattering from the lead-colored sky, Samuel Campbell glared up at his eldest grandson, winded but defiant.

            “Dean.” He rasped. “It’s good to see you again.”

            “Yeah, can’t say the same for you, gramps.” Dean sighted down on his grandfather. “It’d be really great to have a family reunion, but I’m a man of my word.” He cocked the hammer on the firearm, feeling nothing but steely-cold fury and readiness.

            Samuel struggled to pull himself up onto one elbow, but the guy was out of his freaking mind if he thought he was getting away this time.

            Dean’s finger squeezed tight on the trigger.

            A hand popped out of nowhere, shoving the gun down so the shot went wild, zinging into the wet ground. Dean whipped around, guard up for a fight, and almost punched Bobby right in the face.

            “Are you outta your fool mind?” Bobby howled.

            “Are _you_?” Dean’s voice was hoarse. “Come _on_ , Bobby, you know how dangerous he is! We can’t just let this son of a bitch walk away again!”

“’Course I know how dangerous he is.” Bobby snapped. “But use your head, Dean! He ain’t out here for just any damn reason, and it mighta slipped your notice that we’re missin’ _four werewolves_. I’ll wager dollars to donuts this yahoo knows who took ’em, and what _for_.”

Blinking raindrops off his eyelashes, Dean looked down at Samuel, who was glaring at them like he could burn holes in Dean and Bobby and make his great escape that way. Dean hadn’t seen the man since Sam had been re-souled, but just _looking_ at him still gave Dean a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Dean.” Bobby had a hold of his shoulder, maybe trying to hold him back. Dean didn’t even know if he was planning on making a move. “We _need him_.”

Dean mopped his face with his arm again, smearing blood and rain onto his jacket, and nodded.

Bobby lifted his chin and Rufus came out of nowhere, high-stepping over the grass with a pistol in his hand. He cracked Samuel over the head with it, dropping him like a rock onto the ground, stone-cold out of it.

Rufus met Dean’s gaze, grimly. “Four are still missing.” He switched his eyes to Bobby. “They’re long gone by now.”

“Thanks, Rufus.”

And that was it; three kids were dead, four were captured and Samuel was somehow involved, with those body-snatching bags of his. _Typical_. The man had been capturing monsters from the first time Dean had met him. Re-met him. Since he’d been raised. They just didn’t know what his angle was this time, with Purgatory off the table as a bargaining chip.

Dean crouched in the mud, grabbed Samuel’s arm and dragged it over his shoulder. He hunched onto his feet with his grandfather’s deadweight hauling him down on one side. Without saying anything, Rufus took Samuel’s other arm, and Bobby led the way back toward the van.

The pain was fading out of Dean’s ribs, and he’d gotten used to ignoring lesser pains like that cut on his cheek. But the anger was slow-burning inside of him, fanning up hotter every time he looked at Samuel’s hanging head in between him and Rufus. He wanted to put a bullet in the man’s brain, not waste time interrogating him. Whether Samuel spilled every sordid detail of his life or stayed shut tight like a steel trap, Dean still had every intention of ending him. Period.

They were maybe ten, twenty yards from the van when Dean heard John’s raised voice, pricking up the hairs on the back of his neck: that tone was usually a call to arms. Get dressed, get the salt, get the hell _moving_ or get your ass killed.

“No, I told you! I don’t need your help—back off!” John was _snarling_ , all right, he was furious. Maybe at Key’s group. Then Dean heard him talking again, in a low voice. “Open your mouth. _Sam_? _Open your mouth_.”

Dean shot a glance at Bobby, slipped Samuel’s arm and ran, shoving through the grass until he got to the clearing beside the van.

Key and her team were flanking the vehicle on both sides, crossbows in hand; they seemed lost. John was kneeling in the mud with Sam in front of him, a few feet of open space between them. Which was weird enough. What was weirder was the way Sam had his arms wrapped around himself like he was freezing and John was holding himself like he was the last line of defense between Sam and something that was coming after him.

“Sam.” John didn’t seem to notice Dean. “You’re hurt, son. Let me see.”

Dean went rigid; could feel Key looking at him. Didn’t want to see if she looked smug because Sam had gotten hurt on Dean’s watch. If she did, he’d probably stab her in the face, girl or not.

Sam didn’t move, didn’t even blink; rain was dragging his hair into his face.

“Sam,” John repeated, stretching his hand out like he was gonna grab Sam’s face, figure out what was wrong.

And Sam _flinched_.

Not angry-flinched, but scared, dog-about-to-get-kicked flinched. It switched something on inside of Dean that more often than not just kind of sat under the surface, waiting until he needed it.

“Back off.” He crossed the clearing in five strides and got down on one knee, giving Sam some space but not as much as John had. Didn’t need to. “Hey, pal. You decided to wimp out on the hunt, huh?”

Soaked and shivering, Sam didn’t look at him. Dean was getting _pissed_.

“Sam? Hey, man, look at me.”

Sam didn’t, but his mouth opened, he let out a shuddering sigh, and blood ran down his chin. Dean snapped his head around, looking at John for an explanation as to why his brother was _bleeding out of his mouth_ , and John barely shrugged.

“He bit his tongue. Seizing.”

It clicked into place after that; seeing Samuel’s Merry Men bagging the werewolves had tripped a livewire in Sam’s brain. Sent him over the edge into Flashback City. Must’ve been a bad one, too, ’cause Dean had never seen him like that before. Or like _this_ ; this kind of shaken up.

He scooted a little closer to his brother. “Sammy.”

Sam’s head yanked up and it was like a lightbulb went on inside that huge shaggy head. He uncurled off the ground and flung himself at Dean, his breaths fast and hot with his face lost inside the ridges of Dean’s leather jacket. Hiding.

“Holy crap—geeze! Dude, lay off!” Dean muttered, but he didn’t think raising his voice at Sam would be a good idea at this point.

“Dean, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

 _Not in front of Key. Dammit, Sam, you pick the worst times for the chick-flick moments_. Dean had to use one arm to brace Sam’s shoulders, keep them both from falling ass-end into the mud.

“Sorry for what, Sammy? You didn’t do anything.”

“ _Then why’s he punishing me_? _Dean_?”

Hell, the kid sounded five years old. His brain had to be trapped in that limbo somewhere, couldn’t wrangle its way back out of Hell so easy this time.

“I gotcha, Sam, I gotcha.” Dean said, keeping it quiet so no one else could hear him. “Devil comes after you and I’ll kick his icy-hot ass into next freaking year.”

A strangled sound that more or less passed for a laugh sorta jammed its way out of Sam’s throat; his fingers were knotted in the collar of Dean’s jacket.

Dean’s world narrowed down; him and Sam, that was it, that was all that mattered. So when Dean stood up, he dragged Sam with him, bracing Sam with one hand on his chest. So he could feel his brother’s heartbeat jumping like crazy, all over the place, fast-then-slow. Not good. Dean met John’s eyes and waited, and the Shifter got the message; stood up and cleared a path through Key’s people, opened the shotgun door of the van. Dean nudged Sam toward it, shoved him down into it, then held up both hands.

“Not gonna hurt you, Sam. I just wanna take a look.”

Exasperated eyes locked on his. That was a _duh, idiot_ look if he’d ever seen one. “ _I know you’re not gonna hurt me, Dean_.” Sam sounded a little more lucid, like he was getting his bearings, and mostly he just looked exhausted. Dean snagged Sam’s chin and pulled his mouth open, taking a look at his tongue. Definitely cut, but it was pretty shallow.

“You’ll live. You’re such a girl.” Dean said, keeping it light; didn’t want to show Sam, or even let himself know, how badly that little bump in the road had scared him.

Sam seemed to get it, though, because he looked guilty. “Sorry.”

“Quit apologizing.” Dean left the door open and went around to the back of the van; Bobby and Rufus were finally hauling Samuel into the open, and Dean had a feeling they’d hung back this long on purpose. Gratitude made him feel gracious; he hopped backwards into the van and helped them sling Samuel inside.

“He smells awful.” Mamoru commented.

“Essence of sewer.” John said.

“You sure about that?” Rufus cocked an eyebrow.

“I know my way around.”

Dean rolled his eyes and hopped out of the van, letting the ninjas take the back. He felt a little spark of vindication when a couple of them kicked Samuel’s unconscious head in passing. Bastard deserved that much and more.

“We’ve collected the bodies. We can burn them at the mansion. Is Sam all right?” Key asked; their little dispute in the basement that morning not withstanding, she actually sounded like she cared.

“Sam’s never all right.” Dean sighed. “Keys. I’m driving.”

“You’re not familiar with the roads in our country.”

Dean glared at her; he wasn’t in the mood for this. “Gimmie the keys or I’ll hotwire the van.”

Key rolled her eyes, fished the keys from the pocket of her dark green camouflage pants and handed them over. Dean winged the key-ring around his finger, then climbed into the driver’s side—which was on the right and that was still weird. Whatever.

Sam jumped a little when Dean slammed the door. “What are you doing?”

“Driving. What’s it look like?”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “You mean you’re babysitting me.”

“Sam, you just went full-on epileptic back there.” The words came out like a punch, because, okay, Sam had scared the crap out of him. “What _was_ that?”

“I don’t know.” Sam’s voice was a stage whisper. Staring out the windshield, playing that ‘look anywhere but at Dean’ game. Sam always did that when he was lying. Or spooked.

“You get those Soulless flashbacks?” Dean asked, half-turning toward Sam.

It took a few seconds, but Sam finally answered; slouched deeper into his seat. “Bits and pieces.” He didn’t need much more prompting than that. “It’s worse than Hell, Dean. Hell was—stuff happening to me. My body, topside? That was stuff _I_ did.”

“You mean stuff your soulless doppelganger did, while Lucifer was using you for a kickball downstairs.” Dean tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

“What I saw? Just now?” Sam’s face scrunched with pain. “It’s like I can feel him… _in me_ , Dean. Like he’s his own person.”

And right then Dean figured out what was missing: Sam didn’t have anything to keep his head up above water anymore. Yeah, Dean could help; John could help, Bobby could help. But they kinda hit a brick wall when Sam was stuck in this rut, blaming himself for something every time he had a flashback. The kid was tired, Dean could tell just by looking at him.

It was time to sack up and get _pissed_.

“Well, you’re gonna love the present I got for you, Sammy.” Dean said.

Sam cocked his head. “You got me a _present_.” Sounded like he didn’t believe it.

“Oh yeah.” Dean plastered on a grin, reached over and clapped Sam on the knee. “It’s called _payback_.”

He let Sam think that one over while he pushed the van up to fifty and headed for the open road.

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

_May 10 th, 2012_

_Shinden_ _Mansion, Kitaibaraki, Japan_

Sam walked downstairs with wet hair, and everyone stopped talking.

            Made sense.

            They’d gotten back to the mansion around nightfall, Dean had all but dragged him inside and made him sleep, in an actual bed, in a guest room. Sam hated being coddled and pampered, especially after a seizure, but Dean had been wearing that Don’t-Cross-Me face and Sam had decided it was the lesser of two evils to submit himself to one of Dean’s rare bouts of complete and total protective, older-brother instinct.

            So he’d let Dean wrestle him into a state of submission over using a bed while everyone else had to use the floor; and then Dean had sacked out right on the floor in the bedroom. And Sam had followed quickly; that grand-mal seizure had really worn him out. First time Sam’d had one since Memphis, when he’d cracked the wall open on purpose. And it had been worse than he’d remembered; more exhausting, too. Not to mention the sieve of memories he’d opened that had left him racked with all that gut-crushing guilt that was just becoming a part of his emotional repertoire every single day.

            At least his brain had given him a rest in sleep, because he couldn’t remember what he’d dreamed, but for the first time in days he had a feeling he hadn’t dreamed about Hell. Or the things he’d done while he was Soulless.

            But waking up in the morning, Sam had felt like death warmed over; he’d managed to slip past Key and her group to use the shower, but now he was out and everyone was up and, apparently, everyone was either talking about him, or talking about something he wasn’t supposed to know.

            “Hey.” Sam kept his tone easygoing, rubbing a towel across the back of his neck. “Uh. What’d I miss?”

            “Nothing important.” John said with a tired smile; even from across the room Sam could tell the Shifter’s clothes smelled like smoke and burning wood. Sam had a feeling he’d been up half the night burning werewolf bodies.

            He could also tell John was lying.

            Sam smirked. “Bull,” He lowered himself into the chair across from John. “C’mon, what’s the _big secret_?”

            Key folded her arms. “Are you certain you’re equipped to handle it?”

            “Key.” John said, quietly, and she looked away.

            First name basis between a Shapeshifter and a by-the-book hunter, probably meant that Sam had missed a _lot_.

            “Bobby?” Sam prompted, leaning forward in his chair and crossing his arms on top of the table. “What’s going on?”

            Bobby avoided his eyes, which was never a good sign; the last time he’d done that, he’d been spooked because Sam had tried to slit his throat and use his blood for a ritual to bar the soul from his vessel.

            Sam went through a hasty rewind of the past twenty-four hours, but he couldn’t think of anything that he’d done to warrant the silent treatment.

            “Guys?” Sam’s voice hitched a little; he was ramping up from teasing irritation to worry, now. “Seriously. What’s wrong?”

            “We’re,” Bobby pulled an ill-tempered face. “ _Sworn to secrecy_.”

            “Uh. Okay, wait.” Sam frowned. “By these guys?”

            “It has nothing to do with us.” Mamoru’s tone of voice suggested maybe that wasn’t the complete and honest truth, either.

            So why were they all _lying_ to him?  
            “Look, is this about yesterday?” Sam asked, and half the faces at the table adopted a supremely uncomfortable expression. “Because, I get it. I freaked all of you out. And I’m sorry. But that doesn’t mean you have to cut me out of the loop, here!”

            “Don’t apologize, Sam.” John said, and that at least sounded sincere.

            “It’s not your fault if you’re an incompetent hunter.” Wataru said with a high, sneering voice, and John was almost shoving onto his feet before Rufus laid a hand sideways on his chest, warning him down.

            Sam stared at the tabletop without really seeing it; his mind going back, to a few weeks ago, when he’d been hunting in an alternate reality with Ellen Harvelle, her daughter Jo, and a shadowed memory of a younger Dean. Before he’d made it back to his own timeline, Ellen had told him not to sell himself short, in spite of the seizures that constantly put him under.

            The crisis yesterday, and the way everyone seemed to be reacting to it, watching him from the corners of their eyes like they thought he was going to strip his skin and go up in flames any second—it made him feel like he was losing any solid footing he’d been gaining on doing this job in spite of his condition.

            Or maybe he just doubted himself, like always.

            “Sam ain’t incompetent, so shut your trap.” Bobby snapped, and Sam looked up, eyebrows rising. Wataru cricked his neck and muttered something under his breath in Japanese. Bobby rejoined that so fast, same language only nastier, that the kid’s eyes flipped open wide. Sam had a feeling Bobby hadn’t exactly been blessing him.

            “Sam.” Key said, and at least she sounded a little more at-ease. “This was not our choice. Whether my brothers agree with the decision, or not.”

            Sam dragged a hand back through his hair. “Then whose decision _was_ it?”

            “Mine.”

Every head at the table swung toward the top of the stairs.

Dean had a paper sack tucked into one arm and a set of keys in his hand. He tossed them onto the table. “Mornin’, Sam.”

Sam didn’t have it left in him to feel gracious toward his pain-in-the-ass brother. “Cutting me out of the hunt? _Really_?”

Dean’s expression slammed shut like a door. “Sam…”

“We flew seventeen _hours_ to take this case, Dean. I’m not just gonna sit on my hands until you decide to take me off of your parole list!”

“That’s not what this is about.”

“ _Right_. Because we have such a _great_ track record, huh?”

Dean slammed the bag down on the counter and sniffed. “So you think this is me cutting you out again.”

Sam raised his arms out at his sides in a challenging shrug.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You pissed at me, Sam?”

“What the hell do _you_ think?”

Sam was pretty sure he imagined the faint trace of a smirk that twisted its way across Dean’s face.

“’Bout time.”

Sam stared at him, some of his irritation draining away. Confusion swelled up to take its place. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Dean sauntered behind him, out the back door on the second story and onto the wide white-painted deck that hung out over the sloping lawn. Grass met trees a few feet from the edge of the porch.

Sam banged the door shut and got in Dean’s face. “You wanna tell me what that was all about?”

Dean rubbed his unshaven jaw. “Last night—”

“Yeah, I was a wreck last night. I get it.” The words spit themselves out, way too sharp. Sam dragged in a breath, trying to get a handle on his anger. “Dean. I’m sorry. About what happened last night.”

Dean’s eyes tugged tight at the corners. “Not your fault, Sammy.”

“The things I saw?” Sam clenched his teeth and propped his hands on his hips, watching the wind bending the trees. Finally, he shook his head. “That doesn’t mean you have to take me off the case.”

“Aw, c’mon, Sam, gimmie a little credit here!” Dean snapped. “I’m not taking you off of anything. It’s not my call, anyway.”

Sam cocked his head. “Then whose is it?”

Dean swore and turned his back on Sam, pacing toward the edge of the balcony and ripping his hands back through his hair.

Caution took over. Sam took a step after his brother. “Dean?”

“This is what I’m _talking_ about, Sammy.” Dean swung back around to face him; he didn’t look pissed. If Sam had to find a word for it…distressed. “You’ve gotta quit blaming yourself for all this crap.”

“All _what_ crap?”

“Y’know, the stuff that happened when your meatsuit was walking topside! Terminator-Sam! That wasn’t your fault and you’re not doing anyone any favors by taking the blame for this crap!”

Sam’s hackles came up at that; force of habit. “What do you want me to do, Dean? Pretend like it never _happened_?”

“No!” Dean groaned. “I want you to…” He trailed off, mashed his lips together, shook his head.

Sam cut him a bitchfaced glare. “You want me to _what_?”

“I want you to _forgive_ yourself, Sammy.” Dean said, hoarsely, and that was so much the opposite of what Sam had been expecting, he just swallowed, and stared. Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “I want you to friggin’, stop blaming yourself for everything, and get pissed at all the crap that brought us here.”

“You mean the Mohera.”

“No. Not the Mohera.” Dean met his eyes. “You _know_ what.”

And Sam did; Dean meant Zachariah. And Ruby. And Lilith. The Apocalypse, Lucifer, Michael. All of the chess pieces that had moved around the board, circled around Sam and Dean, tried to fit and shape and mold them into their destinies. The culmination: Sam in the pit. And then his body, soulless, hunting, and terrorizing. 

“What good is getting angry going to do?” Sam asked, quietly. “They’re already gone. And it’s just me. So…not sure I see the point.”

“Beats the hell out of what you’re doing.”

Dean didn’t need to elaborate.

“You know I can’t just forget what I did.” Sam said. “I still have to fix this.”

“Wouldn’t be Sammy if you didn’t.” Dean pointed out. “I’m just asking you…do it for the right reasons.”

“Like…?”

“Well, you can quit with the whole redemption thing. You’re just digging yourself into a rut, and you keep tripping back into the whole ‘woe-is-me’, guilty thing, and that’s not working.”

“Then, what? _Revenge_?”

Dean snorted. “Think back a little farther than that.”

“Dean. _What_?”

“How about the good ’ol days, huh?” Dean demanded. “ _Saving people? Hunting things_? Forget all the crap that went down, we’re never gonna fix that, Sam. It’s done. We’re _done_ with it. Best thing we can do right now is grab whatever we run into and keep swinging.”

And Sam wondered how long Dean had been thinking this through; how long he’d been keeping tabs on Sam, on how he was feeling, really figuring him out for what he was. And more than that, Sam wondered why he’d ever thought he was so great at lying to Dean and hiding things—hiding his nightmares, hiding his seizures, hiding his guilt about _everything_. He’d never been able to do it; not even when he was sneaking around with Ruby, trying to escape his brother’s overbearing in-charge attitude.

Fact was, Dean could wrangle the truth out of him from a distance; could read Sam like a book. And maybe what Dean wanted from him was the same thing Ellen had wanted, when she’d sent him to her family’s safehouse: where he’d found that picture of the Harvelle family and that poem he kept in his wallet all the time.

“Was I hallucinating last night when you said you had a present for me?” Sam tugged on a smile, and Dean matched it.

“Lemee know you’re pissed, and it’s yours.”

Sam swayed his head, almost cocky. “Good and pissed.”

“You better be.” Dean clapped him on the upper arm and led the way back inside.

Key’s group had barely moved since Sam and Dean had left, but Sam somehow got the feeling they’d been listening in. Dean scratched his forehead absently, then pointed to John, Bobby and Rufus. “You guys, come with us. The rest of you just sit tight.”

Key started to rise. “Dean!”

“Nuh-uh, you and your boys had your fun last night while Sam was sleeping. We got Bupkiss. Now,” He swept the bag back off the counter. “It’s our turn.”

Sam wondered what it was Dean had in store for him that necessitated all five of them, and Key’s group, to handle it.

He was pretty sure Dean knew better than to give him a pet werewolf.

Just in case, Sam was ready to punch his brother’s running lights out.

They headed back to the foyer, through a locked door Sam hadn’t paid attention to before, and down a second flight of stairs into dank, chilly darkness. They stopped at the bottom and Dean dropped the bag—loudly—skittering the tools inside. Sam could hear Dean’s boots shuffling across concrete; something clicked in the shadows.

Light flooded a disc across a basement that was longer than it was wide; the low-slung ceiling trapped the light and threw it back, leaving the recesses of the room in shadow.

Dean trained the makeshift spotlight on one of the support pillars in the middle of the room. And on a person sitting on the hard concrete floor, with his arms wrapped back around the pillar, a sack over his head.

“Comfy?” Dean kicked a protruding leg on his way past, then circled around the pillar. Sam watched his brother, eyes narrowed, intent and focused. Waiting. Dean braced his hand against the pillar and leaned over their prisoner’s shoulder, his mouth where man’s ear probably was. “I sure hope not.”

“Dean,” Sam said. “Who is this guy?”

Dean’s eyes raised to his, and Sam had a feeling the answer wasn’t as easy as just a name. He shifted his weight.

“ _Show me_.”

Dean grabbed the sack and ripped it off.

Muddy-brown eyes spit sparks as Samuel Campbell turned his head to peer back over his shoulder. “You got a lotta nerve, tying me up like this, boy.”

The sight of Samuel’s smug half-smile cracked something inside of Sam. He kicked Dean’s paper bag out of the way and made it three long strides closer before Dean’s hands met his chest, shoving him back.

“Sam, cool it!”

“I’ll kill that son of a bitch!” Sam snarled, trying to duck Dean’s grip; but Dean had his hands knotted up in the front of Sam’s t-shirt and kept shouldering him back. And even though Sam had fifty pounds and four inches on his brother, it was a fairly-matched fight. Sam didn’t have all of his strength back after the seizure the night before.

“We need his help!” Dean growled.

“I don’t _care_!”

Samuel’s laughter froze Sam mid-struggle. “You boys _never_ change, do you?”

Sam hurled himself forward and Dean snagged him across the chest with his arm, yanking him back and pinning him against the wall with his arm across Sam’s throat. “I said, _calm down_!”

“You wanted me _pissed_? _This is pissed_!” Sam was spitting, stabbing his finger toward his grandfather. “He almost sacrificed an innocent _girl_ because he was too afraid to hunt down the demon that was holding a curse over her _head_!”

“This really isn’t the time to debate semantics.” Samuel said coldly.

“Might be a good idea for you to _shut up_.” Bobby suggested mildly; but Sam could hear the storm brewing in his voice, too.

At least now Sam remembered what had rocketed him into a full-on seizure: seeing Samuel, remembering, _Memphis_ _._ It had triggered a fresh wave of Soulless memories and Hell. The two got so tightly wrapped around each other sometimes Sam didn’t know which was which. Both parts of him. Totally real.

 Like he was three pieces, in one body.

And right now they were all _fury_.

“I almost _died_ ,” Sam snarled. “After what you did to me in Memphis.”

Dean stiffened, his arm sliding down from Sam’s throat. “What did he do?” he snapped a look over his shoulder. “ _Sam_?”

“Your brother’s blowing things out of proportion, Dean.” Samuel shifted against the column. “I didn’t almost _kill_ him.” He jerked his chin at Sam. “He did that himself.”

Dean put his back to Sam, but kept one hand on Sam’s chest; a warning. “ _You’re the one who broke Sam’s wall?_ ”

“No. I _didn’t_. I just made him face what he’d done.”

Dean pulled a tight, disbelieving smile. “Y’know, maybe Sam’s right.” He growled. “Maybe we should just blow your head off.”

“Calm down, Dean.” John murmured.

Samuel’s head snapped around, his eyes fixing on the Shifter. “Do I know you?”

“You could say that.” John’s belligerent tone didn’t have any trace of nervousness in it; it was cold steel, bloody knuckles, and gunpowder. It was one-hundred-percent John Winchester. “You tried to kill me once.”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

“I married your daughter.”

“Ah.” Samuel’s tongue swiped his bottom lip, thoughtfully. “Right. I was awake when that demon made you into a buyoff.” He nodded. “Well, it’s too bad the bastard didn’t finish the job with you, huh?”  

Dean thumped his fist once on Sam’s chest, then crossed the room, slapping his flat palm down on the pillar above Samuel’s head and leaning down on his level.

Dean’s elbow came out of nowhere, cracking against Samuel’s jaw, jolting his head to one side. Sam sucked in a low breath and then blew it out, glancing at John.

Dean slid his hand down off the column and grabbed Samuel’s collar. “You might wanna watch how you talk to him. _Huh?_ ”

He straightened up and backed off; Samuel licked blood from his split lip and heaved a sigh.

“What do you want from me, Dean?” He sounded tired. Sam crossed his arms and glared at the man; tired, or not, he had a grudge. For his own sake. And for Annalise Stetson, and God knew who else. Anything could’ve happened in past few months since Sam had seen his grandfather.

“You could tell us why you’re here, for starters.” Rufus lowered himself onto the bottom step and folded his hands in front of his mouth, eyebrows up.

“I think we all know how _much_ I’m going to tell you.” Samuel leaned his head back against the column and studied the ceiling. “That little bitch already had me up half the night asking the same questions over, and over, and over again.”

“Yeah, well, today’s your lucky day, pal.” Dean flashed a goofy smile, but Sam knew him well enough to see the hard edge underneath it. “I can be _ten times_ her kind of annoying.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Oh-ho-ho, no, you wouldn’t. _Trust_ me.” Dean started pacing a slow circle in front of Samuel. “But you’re gonna see it, anyway.”

Something about the way Dean said it raised the hair on Sam’s arms. He stepped forward, and even though every instinct inside of him wanted to kill Samuel or be as far from him as possible, he kept a stranglehold on his composure.

“Where’s Gwen?” His tone, surprisingly calm. Sam was proud of that.

Samuel chuckled. “Oh, Gwen? Well,” His mouth twisted up into a satisfied sneer. “She was a bad girl.”

And that held enough implications of its own; from the periphery of his vision, Sam saw Dean swing back toward Samuel with a slow shake of his head.

“You’re a cold bastard, y’know that?” Dean muttered. “Unbelievable.”

“What happened to you, Samuel?” Sam asked sharply. “You used to have standards. Or something like them. You used to care about your _family_.”

“You’re not my family.” Samuel spat. “ _Mary_ was my family. _Deanna_ was my family. Not you piss-poor excuses for grandsons.”

“I’m wounded.” Dean rocked his head from side to side lazily. “You’re a pretty piss-poor excuse for a grandfather. Always have been.”

“That’s a spiffy comeback, Dean.” Samuel jabbed.

“Yeah, you can take your awesome sense of humor and cram it up your hairy ass.” Dean shrugged his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves. “Time to get started.”

            He went back for his paper bag, and with only last long look at Samuel, Sam followed his brother.

            Bobby met them head-on. “What do you boys wanna do?”

            “You and Rufus, keep an eye on the door. I don’t want Key, or anyone else, getting down here.” Dean’s voice was totally flat. Ramping up for something.

Bobby nodded slowly. “On my way.” Him and Rufus clumped back up the stairs, vanished into the shadows at the top.

Dean waited until they were gone before he picked up the paper bag. Started to tip it over; froze. “John, can you, uh.” He cleared his throat. “You and Sam can clear out.”

For the first time, Sam felt a twinge of real doubt. “Dean?”

“I said, _clear out_ , Sam.” Dean grated out.

“What are you gonna to do him? _Dean_!”

Dean didn’t answer; he sank to his knees and dumped the contents of the bag on the concrete floor.

Razors. Scalpels. Knives. Needles. All of the tools you’d need to extract information—forcibly.

 _Torture_.

“No.” Sam said with determination. “You’re not doing this. We’re not gonna torture the man!”

“What other choice do we have, Sam?” Dean’s eyes looked a little too glossy in the low light; as far as Sam knew, Dean had put down the knife after torturing Alistair almost three years ago, and hadn’t picked it up since. Like Sam’s struggle with his addiction to demon blood, this was something dark inside of him that Dean had been forced to face and battle down.

And he was going embrace it; just to find out what Samuel was hiding.

“It’s not happening.” Sam kicked the nearest knife out of Dean’s reach.

“We need to find out what he wanted with those werewolves.” Dean wasn’t budging on this, gathering the rest of the tools like he hadn’t noticed Sam’s little outburst. “And where they took ’em. Those kids are gonna start turning _tonight_. We don’t have time to wait around for him to get the stick out of his ass.”

“Dean. _No_.”

“I don’t get it, Sam.” Dean’s head pulled up, his eyes meeting Sam’s in the gloom. “This guy almost _killed_ you, you said it yourself. He deserves what he gets.”

“I know he does.” Sam pitched his voice low. “But I’m not gonna let you do this to _yourself_ , Dean.”

Dean blinked. “What?”

“Torturing souls? In _Hell_? You were messed up for months, Dean, _months_. If that was a bad, I can’t imagine…” His gaze was drawn back to Samuel. “He’s an ass, Dean. No argument there.” Sam crouched in front of his brother. “He’s still our grandfather.”

Dean’s silence held for a minute, and then held out his hand, wordlessly. Sam read the cue, handed Dean the knife he’d kicked out of reach.

“So what’s your genius backup plan, Einstein?” Dean flipped the knife around idly in his hand.

“Uh.” Sam clapped his hands awkwardly on his knees. “We…put our heads together with Key’s group?” Dean rolled his eyes and huffed. “Look, Dean, it’s better than—”

“Yeah, yeah, heard ya the first time.” Dean got to his feet and threw a flippant glance over his shoulder toward Samuel. “Well, looks like you got lucky. We’ll lay off the torturing,” He met Sam’s eyes for a second, “For now,” then brushed past him and headed for the stairs.

Sam blew out a breath and started sweeping the instruments back into the paper sack; he could feel Samuel studying him, but he didn’t give his grandfather the benefit of acknowledgement. It wasn’t worth it.

“Here.” John knelt beside Sam and passed him a scalpel. Sam weighed it in his hand, a shudder rippling its way down his shoulders when he remembered the exact feeling of a device like this peeling his skin off in strips.

Hell. Always two steps behind.

“You know, ever since you and Dean were kids, he’s always been in charge.” John mentioned, loading up the rest of the tools while Sam was staring at the scalpel. “That was something he trained into. More than that, it was part of who he was. Taking care of you, Sammy, that was the most important thing in Dean’s life, ever since he was a boy.”

“Uh.” Sam shook himself out of it, “Sure,” and dropped the scalpel into the bag.

“I’m just not sure when it turned into a two-way street.”

Surprise brought Sam’s eyes up to John’s, and he didn’t think he was imagining the pride there.

The door at the top of the stairs banged open, bringing John and Sam up onto their feet. They met Key at the bottom step, with Dean, Bobby and Rufus right behind her.

“There’s trouble.” She announced.

“What’s wrong?” Sam demanded.

“The Mohera.” Key pulled her hair back over her shoulder, the movement subconscious, and agitated. “It’s _here_.”

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

_May 10 th, 2012_

_Shinden_ _Mansion, Kitaibaraki, Japan_

 

“Oh, shit.”

            “That is an understatement.” Key twisted around to face Dean on the stairs. “It must have tracked the scent of the werewolves when we took them from the field.”

            “Or it’s picked up on my trace.” John butted in. “Either way, doesn’t matter. Can the wards hold it off?”

            “No. They are only able to cloak us from the Great Akuma. Not to repel it. The wards will be useless now.”

            “Well, listen, I’m no coward,” Rufus shifted his weight onto the step above Dean. “But it seems to me this would be an excellent time to get our backsides _out of here_.”

            “It’s not gonna be that easy.” Dean said, glancing at John. “Am I right?”

            John shook his head. “We don’t stand a chance of outrunning it on foot. And that van isn’t big enough for all of us.

            “So, what’s the plan?” Sam stepped into the slice of light falling from the open door over Dean’s shoulder; he still looked a little angry and a lot worried but at least he had his head in the game. Dean had battled with the possibility that seeing Samuel would throw Sam back into the Cage inside his head, but so far it had done the opposite. Felt good to catch a break on that front.

            And now this.

            “There is no _plan_.” Key snapped. “One way or another, we’ve led this creature to our own doorstep. It will be impossible to stop.”

            Dean let the silence stretch out and get heavy for a second before he cocked two fingers in the air. “Yo. If everyone else is shootin’ blanks, I got an idea.”

            Four pairs of eyes swung on him.

            “This better be good, kid.” Bobby said under his breath.

            “I figure, we don’t have much of an arsenal that can kill this thing.” Dean said. “But if everyone’s been running scared from it since the dragons let it out, then maybe it needs some scaring back.”

            Key tilted her head “Meaning…?”

            “We grab what we got, dig in, and fight the son of a bitch.”

            Sam’s mouth wrinkled down. “Worth a shot.”

            “Sounds like suicide.” Rufus folded his arms.

            “You got a better idea?”

            “Run for the _hills_ , maybe?”

            “Like I said,” John replied. “We can’t outrun it on foot. Dean’s right; we stand our best chance if we stay here and hold our ground.”

            “How far out is it?” Dean directed his question at Key.

            “One minute. Maybe two. Nobuo felt its approach while he was patrolling our borders. He has no doubt it was following a scent.”

            “What the hell, right?” Dean shrugged.

            “Sam, Dean, grab the gear from downstairs.” John ordered. “As much of it as you can carry. And make it fast.”

            Dean took the stairs down to Sam’s level two at a time and they split up, heading to opposite walls and opposite weapon racks; Dean started slinging firearm straps over his shoulders, not giving himself time to wonder where Key had gotten her hands on all of this stuff.

            “Dean.” Samuel said urgently, wrestling with the bonds on his wrists. “Listen. That thing is a common enemy. I can help.”

            Dean pulled a belt off the wall, checking the throwing stars in the loop before draping it over his neck. “You think I’m gonna let you loose?”

            “One more gun-arm can’t hurt.”

            “Yeah, unless you shoot me. Or Sam.” Dean cut him a look before loading up a shotgun with rock-salt rounds. “I don’t think so.”

            Across the room, Sam cleared his throat. “Dean.”

One brief glance showed Dean the uncertainty in his brother’s eyes.

            “Oh, no. Don’t even think about it. _Sam_!”

            “If the Mohera gets through us, it’ll just tear him to shreds. At least if he has a weapon, he can _help_.”

            “You can’t _seriously_ be thinking about trusting the man!”

            “Dean, he’s got a point!”

            “Look, we don’t have time to debate this. Untie me, or get moving.” Samuel snapped.

            Dean turned away before he had to see Sam yank out his butterfly knife. There was a grating hiss of a sharp edge sawing rope, and then Samuel lurched into the edge of Dean’s vision. Dean recoiled, ready to come back with a punch, but Samuel just reached past him, grabbed a gun and started loading it.

            Dean waited until his grandfather was set, then jerked one of the assault rifles toward the stairs. “You first, gramps.”

            “Watch your mouth.” Samuel growled, heading for the stairs. Sam fell into step with Dean.

            “You ready for this?” Sam was all six-foot-four of puppy eyes and total concern.

            Dean propped the firearm back against his shoulder. “Not even close.” He motioned. “Ladies first.”

            Sam shot him a bitchface, but he went.

            Key and her group already had things in full swing upstairs, throwing tables around to set up barricades and dropping salt lines on the doors and windows. Not like that would help much, but, hey. Whatever made them feel less like their heads were on the chopping block.

            “This is a terrible plan.” Bobby said when Sam and Dean joined him behind an overturned lounge chair. He spotted Samuel and his face went tense. “What’s _he_ doin’ loose?”

            “Bait.” Dean answered shortly, slinging one of the guns off his shoulders and into Bobby’s waiting hands.

            “Man’s a snake with a head at both ends, Dean. One of those heads is gonna bite you in the ass.”

            “You got a better idea?” Even though it hadn’t been Dean’s idea, and he _knew_ it was a crapshoot to let the old man off the hook. Still.

            Bobby rolled his eyes and took the box of .223 rounds Dean held out to him.

            “Where’s John?” Sam asked, his brows dipping as he unsheathed a scimitar he’d dug up outta the basement. Dean made a mental note: get himself one the next time he had a chance. Thing looked _wicked_.

            “Front window.” Bobby jerked a thumb over his shoulder and Sam and Dean stretched their heads up to look over the swooped back of the couch.

            John had a pistol in one hand, sawed-off in the other and he was wearing a black trenchcoat; Dean wondered where he’d gotten _that_ thing from. He kept twitching the long drapes out of his way with the muzzle of the pistol.

            He aimed a nod at the balcony over their heads, finally, so Dean figured Key was probably up there with her brothers. Then John hopped the back of the couch and dropped in between Dean and Bobby.

            “Nice coat.” Dean sniffed and wrinkled his nose. “S’that Old Spice?”

            “Kyoshi’s idea. To help mask my scent. Dean, I need you to listen to me.” John yanked him around, putting Dean’s back to the others, and crouched in front of him. “When the fighting starts, I want you to grab Sam, take the van, and get out of here.”

            “You—you’re kidding me, right?” Dean scoffed, but John just kept staring at him with those basset-hound eyes. Dean always _knew_ where Sam got _The Look_ from. “Dude. Are you _serious_? You guys are outgunned, like, a hundred to one! Sam and I are good hunters, you need us in on this!”

            “I know you are. You’re the best we have.” 

            “Right. So we’re not just gonna _bail_ right before the big fight!”

            “Dean, I taught you to pick your battles. This is _not_ one we can win.”

            “Then we all go down, _together_ , or we don’t go down at all!” Dean snarled.

            “Dean!” There was an unspoken, _Enough_ , tacked onto the end of that. John gripped Dean’s shoulder, brown eyes staring unblinking into green. “I need you to take care of Sam. You hear me? Get your brother _out of here_.”

            That was a low blow and the man _knew_ it.

            Dean didn’t have a chance to argue, because Samuel picked that second to drop in and join them behind the couch. “How far out is—?”

            And he just…stopped talking.

            Dean couldn’t blame him.

            Wasn’t so much that anything changed; sunlight kept spilling in through the gap in the age-shrunken, filthy drapes. They were all still breathing.

            It was more like—something went dead quiet _outside._ Like every sound—birds, wind, all of it—got sucked into a black hole.

            Dean felt ice-water dread trickle down the back of his neck; for a second his whole line of sight filled with _Sam_ , and John’s order pounded its way into his ears: _I need you to take care of Sam. Get your brother out of here_.

            John pulled in a deep breath:

“It’s here.”

The whole front face of the mansion peeled open like an orange, splitting under massive clawmarks that made the Jurassic Park symbol look like a joke. John froze, staring at the front of the house while the support beams on the side swayed in and collapsed. First look at the thing—and Dean was glad he couldn’t see it. If the look on the John’s face told him anything, the Mohera wasn’t exactly National Geographic photographic material.

“This was a really, _bad_ idea.” Sam’s voice pitched high with dread.

Dean cocked a shot and fired blind, but he had a feeling he hadn’t hit anything.

The bark of gunfire snapped the silence, though, changed something. Key let out a whooping yell and ran smack down the wide staircase toward the entryway. John lurched to his feet.

“Don’t get near its head, or it’ll—”

“Suck out your soul?” Rufus hollered back, following the charge of ninja-hunters toward the ruined front of the mansion. “Try telling us something we _don’t_ know!”      

John stepped out, in front of the couch with his back to it. “Bobby. Samuel. Aim for my one and eleven. Track left when I say.” His shoulders tensed. “Dean, remember what I told you.”

Dean swallowed the boulder-sized, cactus-shaped lump in his throat. “Yes, sir.”

John rocked up onto the balls of his feet, coiled like a spring. “ _Now_!”

Bobby and Samuel started unloading past him, same time the ninjas whacked off the thing and regrouped. They were flinging their throwing stars, swords sliding out, dodging and dancing back out of the Mohera’s reach. John charged in to join them, swerved left at the last second, and Bobby and Samuel aimed up high and followed him.

Dean’s finger kept lagging on the trigger, John’s order breaching up against hunter instinct. _Fight_. His family was in danger.

Sam pushed himself slowly to his feet, like he was trying to make himself as small as possible, and drew his sword.

 _Protect Sam_.

“Sam, let’s go!” Dean smacked the long throat of the gun against Sam’s shoulder, jerking his head toward the back door. Sam’s wide eyes found his and Dean pulled on his man-in-charge face. With one more desperate glance—that showed them Mamoru being lifted off his feet by an empty vacuum of soul-sucking space, flinging him up against the ceiling and then dropping him back onto the floor—they charged the glass back wall.

“What’s the plan?” Sam yelled over the sound of another half of the house getting ripped to shreds.

“I’m working on it!” Dean grabbed the back of Sam’s jacket and shoved him forward; they crashed through the window, out onto the lawn, and dodged the broken glass to get to the van. Dean yanked the door open and ripped the bottom of the steering column open, working on the wires.

“Hey.” Sam jangled something over his head, and Dean looked up; his brother was holding the keys, sunlight glinting off silver.

“Give ’em!”

Sam tossed him the keys underhand and Dean wiggled them into the ignition, starting the belching bucket before his ass had hit the seat.

Sam crammed in beside him, grabbing onto the top of the window when Dean gunned it and the van shot across the lawn, bumping through every dip in the dirt on the way toward the woods.

“Where are we going?” Sam demanded. “Dean!”

“Just trust me, Sam.”

That earned him a patented Sam Winchester Glare. The kind that could cook rocks. “We are _not_. Running away.”

Dean’s face twisted into a snarl. “Of course we’re not! Sam, _c’mon_!”

“Then _where are we going_?”

“Just trust me, would you?” Dean floored it all the way toward the treeline, then yanked the wheel hard left, lugging the van around. Didn’t spin tight like the Impala, which was a serious disappointment. Dean missed his baby like—

He needed to focus.

They could still see the front of the mansion from here; place was starting to look gutted, little flea-sized spots jumping around in the open space. It would’ve been pretty funny, actually, if Dean hadn’t known John and Bobby and Rufus were slogging it in there, trying not to get killed.

“Hold on to your panties, Sam.”

Dean slammed the pedal to the floor.

More smoke, shredded grass and rocks spit out from under the tires and the van’s get-up-and-go _finally_ got up and went. The thing lurched and went barreling across the open field toward the house. Dean was still debating, ram the empty space everyone was aiming for and trash the van, or be a decoy and give the hunters a cleaner shot—when Sam cranked down his window, hooked his legs under the seat and leaned the whole top half of his body out the window. He drew down on the Mohera and started popping rounds into the gap on the porch.

Dean had half a second to catch John looking right, figure out he’d missed his mark, and go for the brakes. “Sam, get back here!” He snagged the back of Sam’s jacket and hauled him in the window right before the van bumped up the ruined porch and slid straight for the first-floor bathroom.

The brakes finally kicked in, slinging the clunker back around. Dean kicked the door open and sprang out, ducked a falling chunk of ceiling to kneel beside Mamoru and check him.

No dice; the guy’s head was cracked like an egg.

“Dammit.” Dean grabbed the nearest gun and aimed it at Wataru. “Get in the van! Move it!”

“We can’t all fit!”

“Then we get as many out as we can!” Dean said. “John—”

“Dean, down!” John cut him off, and Dean dropped and rolled toward the Shifter, coming up on one knee, hating that he couldn’t see the thing that was trying to bite his head off.

“Where is it?” Sam thumped to a running stop beside Bobby.

“Where _isn’t_ it?” John’s expression was bleak, his eyes darting around the room. “I’m not sure it can see us. It seems like it’s fighting blind. But it can smell us.” He stiffened for a second, then shoved Dean over, skidding him against the bottom of the stairs, and hopped back out of the way. The floor between them cracked and fissured open like someone had pounded the mother of all hammers in to the wood.

“ _Abort mission_!” Dean hauled onto his feet. “Get everyone outta here!”

“We can still fight!” Wataru protested.

“No, we can’t. Our bullets bounce off its hide. The swords aren’t doing any better than that.” John dragged a limp, bleeding ninja to his feet. “Wataru, you drive as many of your brothers as you can off the grounds. Then come back for the rest of us.”

Dean felt that hair-on-end, ice-on-his-molars _wrongness_ again and dodged the railing over his head shattering. He made a sweep of the people piling toward the van. “Where’s Key?”

“She went to find her sword. Upstairs!” Wataru took the dazed kid from John.

Dean flipped the sword over and passed it to Sam. “Go with them.”

“No! Dean! I’m not just gonna leave you here!”

“One-person job, Sammy. Hero gets to save the girl.”

Dean pivoted and took off running, dodging whatever part of the Mohera was slapping at the stairs, ripping them to shreds. A couple times he had to leap gaps, feeling something clicking toward his spine. Probably big, ugly teeth.

He’d hated being a vampire, hated every _second_ of it. But right now he figured he’d trade the bloodlust for being able to see this thing.

Dean skidded off the top step and didn’t have a hard time finding Key from there; the Mohera had chucked a tangled web of doorposts and curtains and body parts into the corner, and Key’s hips were pinned underneath. There was dirt smudged on her face and her eyes were closed.

“Hey. Hey, hey, hey.” Dean knelt beside her head, slapping her cheek gently. “Hey! Rise and shine, Mulan. Fight’s still on.”

Key’s eyelids fluttered, didn’t open all the way. “Dean—?”

“You’re fine, just hang tight.” Dean peered up at the crush of massive infrastructure pretzeled into the corner of the room. This wasn’t going to be easy. “All right. Anything feel broken?”

Key’s face scrunched and a shudder passed down her body. “I don’t think so.”

“Score one for the team, huh?” Dean laughed lightly. “I’m gonna try and lift this whole thing offa you. Need you to slide yourself out of the way as soon as the pressure’s off your legs, all right?”

Key bit her lip and nodded curtly.

Dean put his shoulder against the edge of the clump and wedged his fingers under the edge, brushing up against Key’s thigh. “On three. You ready?”

“ _Just do it_!” The words were almost a sob.

“All right, one. Two—”

And Dean felt something. Something grabbing into him from the inside. He choked up, his air cutting off. He couldn’t get enough of a breath in to say _three_. He felt his knees buckling, he was sinking down. Leaning against the jagged edge of a doorpost, he turned his head, slowly.

For one second, he thought he saw something. Something that wasn’t real and wasn’t pleasant, made Wendigoes look like teddy-bears and painted Rugarus as the poster-children for cleanliness. It was just a split-second glance, and Dean _still_ felt his heart take a swing down to his ankles.

His mouth slipped open and something acidic, white and scalding boiled its way out of Dean’s throat. Ripping its way free of him.

The Mohera’s head. Had to be close to his. Had to be—

 _Holy crap he was about to become the next Robo-Winchester_.

A knee dug into his ribs, knocking Dean sideways. His forehead cracked against whatever left of the curtain-rod and that knocked the sense straight back into him. He bolted back up for another look.

Whatever he’d seen, it was gone; instead there was this huge _guy_ with his back to Dean and Key, arms spread out. Protecting them. Which, okay, wasn’t too weird. Even if he wasn’t a ninja.

Those needle-sharp fangs scissoring out of his gums made him a little less than a polite dinner guest, though.

The vampire hissed, holding its ground against the Mohera; made a humming sound in its throat. The hiss strangled out.

The vampire exploded, spraying Dean and Key with a thick soupy layer of blood and gore. Dean ducked, and looked up again, but that crawling cold feeling had disappeared. Only thing he could hope for: that the Mohera was gone, too.

“Dean!” Key whimpered. He shook himself back into it. Shook off the intense need to go to the nearest dark corner and barf his guts out. He readjusted his balance and heaved up on the shrapnel pile, and Key swung around on her back. Dean let it drop and knelt beside her, laying a hand on her back while she sat up and rubbed her legs.

“You good?”

Key pointed wordlessly toward the fridge.

There was a disembodied arm rolling on the tiles.

Juicy.

Dean stood up, got ready to give it a kick into the scrap heap—stopped mid-step.

He knew that symbol.

Dean dropped again, swallowed hard, then picked up the arm and turned it around to look at the brand on the wrist.

Took him back: Essex. Isabelle. And the Rakshasa.

“What does that mean?” Key asked, crawling to his side.

“Nothing good.” Dean held out his hand to her and pulled them both to their feet. “Think I know who can tell us for sure.”

They didn’t even make it downstairs before they ran smack into the guy Dean wanted to see.

Samuel mopped blood from his forehead with his sleeve and stopped a few steps below them, resting the assault rifle against his elbow. Something about the man’s stance put Dean on edge.

“Key. Go find Sam, tell him to meet me up here.” Dean said. Before she could make a wisecrack about being in charge and not taking orders from him, Dean just gave her a _look_. And apparently it translated, because she took the stairs two at a time down to the first floor.

“The son of a bitch is gone.” Samuel said.

“I noticed. Oh. Not before it tried to go A.J. Raffles on my _soul_.” Dean said. “Luckily I got saved. Just in the _nick_ of time. No thanks to you.”

“I was working my way up here.”

“Yeah, well, work faster next time, huh?”

Samuel grunted out a sigh. “What can I do for you, Dean?”

“You can start by telling me what you know about _this_.” Dean held out the vampire’s arm. “And you can just skip the innocent-until-proven-guilty part. Something tells me, this symbol cropping up again? And us running into you in freaking _Japan_? That’s not a coincidence.”

Samuel stared at the arm for a minute, not blinking, but Dean could hear the creaky wheels turning in that egg-bald head of his.

“Welp.” Samuel sighed. “Looks like the cat’s outta the bag.”

Dean’s line of sight filled with the butt of the assault rifle, and then the lights went out.

 

 

The first thing he heard was dripping water.

Everything slid back in, slow and sludgy. Dean could hear his heartbeat and _feel_ it inside a vice-tight headache. He squinted his eyes against a painful fluorescent light that sliced in through his eyelids. Checked his hands and feet—tied, behind something hard that was digging into his back. A pole. Maybe. Or a pipe. He was down on his knees and one of his ankles was shackled up to the pole, too.

He tested his eyes out and found one was swollen pretty badly. The other one took a second to adjust, but then he had a sweep of the place.

It looked like a sewer hub or an abandoned subway; water leaking through a mildewed roof, all the walls curving up over their heads. Everything was splashed in gray-yellow-green; a huge card table was unfolded a few feet away and there were people circled up around it. People standing guard at both entrances to the hub and another guy on the opposite wall who was either really short, or standing inside some kind of sluice.

Dean turned his head a little, letting his good eye slide as far to the periphery as he could without setting off eyestrain along with the headache.

Brown hoodie, plaid shirt, scuffed jeans. Sam was tied to the next pipe over—definitely a pipe—the same way Dean was; his chin dipped down to his chest. His eyes were closed.

“Sam.” Dean muttered under his breath. “Sam! Hey!” He stretched out his free leg and tapped Sam’s knee with his boot.

Sam winced, his eyes sliding open. “Dean…”

“Right here, Sammy. You good?”

“Nngh.” Sam twisted his wrists and lines burrowed into his forehead. “Guh. Uh,” He sat back, taking some of the pressure off his shoulders. “Where are we?”

“That’s the least of our problems.” The uptight voice came from Sam’s other side; had to be John. “We’re completely surrounded by monsters.”

All of Dean’s senses snapped to alert; not trying to be subtle anymore, he swung his head left, then right, casing the place.

At least twenty people—monsters—he didn’t recognize. Him and Sam, John, Bobby and Rufus strapped to a semi-circle of pipes that looked like cage bars, on one wall. No weapons in sight, no weapons on any of the monsters. Just those two exits and maybe a waterway across from them.

And now—great—the monsters were looking at them.

“Crap.” Sam said.

That pretty much summed it up.

“Sharp guess, Shifter.” Samuel’s smug voice made Dean tense and straighten up on his knees. “But they’re not _all_ monsters.”

Samuel walked over to the pipes, cleaning his hands on a gun-rag. He looked totally in his element. The back-stabbing, family-betraying element.

“I shoulda killed you the first time I saw your ugly face.” Dean spat.

“Sticks and stones, Dean.”

“Don’t s’pose you could cut us free and we could talk about this, _civilized-like_?” Bobby said it like he was talking to a first-grader. Dean wrestled down a smirk.

“I don’t think so.” One of the guys at the table turned around to butt in on their conversation, and Dean felt a knife of recognition jab up under his ribs.

Sam went rigid. “ _Marik_?”

“Long time no see.”

The guy didn’t look all that different from the last time they’d seen him, six months ago in Maryland. A little scruffier, maybe a little more gray in the temples. But he was the same monster-wrangling bag of dicks, that much was obvious just from _looking_ at his arrogant face.

Dean was seeing red. “I figured you were smart enough to drop off the map after what happened in Essex, but falling in with our _grandfather_?” He growled. “That’s pretty sloppy. ’Cause now you’re next on my kill-list, chuckles.”

“You Winchesters never struck me as the particularly lethal type.” Marik said. “Not toward humans, anyway.”

“I think we can make an exception.” Sam’s flat tone reminded Dean of Soulless.

“You give that your best shot.” Samuel smiled wickedly.

“Yeah, that’s cute. You’re really brave when we’re all tied up.” Dean jerked his head toward Sam and John, on his left. “How ’bout you cut the ropes and we’ll see who’s more lethal, here?”

“Hell no.” Marik snorted. “You boys are VIP status. You’ve got front row seats.”

“Seats to _what_ , exactly?” Bobby demanded.

“That’s the surprise, isn’t it?” Samuel worried a knife loose from his belt and tapped the flat of the blade against his temple, studying Dean. “You wanted answers, Dean. And now you’re gonna get ’em.”

“Bring it on, you douchebag.”

“What do you want with us?” Sam wriggled his arms in the ropes, searching for a weak spot. _Keep it up, Sammy_.

“Who says we want anything with _you_?”

Every monster, every human in the room snapped to attention like soldiers. The same way Dean used to do whenever he heard John’s voice.

And Sam said, really fast and under his breath, “I don’t believe it.”

“Sam?” John’s tone meant one thing: _Spit. It. Out._

Sam swallowed more than just air: rage. Dean could see it on his face.

“I know her voice.” His eyes pinned down on the girl who swayed her way over to the table:

“She killed Jesse.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

_May 11 th, 2012_

_Unknown_ _, Japan_

“Well, Sam, I’m just flattered you remember me! I hear your memory’s not so great these days, huh?”

            This girl’s southern accent and pouty face would’ve been cute if Sam didn’t already know she had a history of murdering _kids_. 

            She crouched in front of Sam, hooking a finger under his chin and trying to look him in the eye. Strands of her blond hair tickled Sam’s nose. He craned his head away from her.

            “Looks like you got your war.”

            She laughed. “Not _hardly_. This isn’t _my_ war, Sam. I didn’t _want_ this.” She pushed herself to her feet. “Name’s Kaila Roth.  I’ve been in this business almost as long as your girl, Kyoshi.”

            Sam felt a cold kick of dread in his guts. “You’re a _hunter_?”

            “Everyone here is a hunter, Sam.” Samuel explained. “Every one of us.”

            “And you know Key? Well, that’s—that’s awesome.” Dean muttered.

            “Know her.” Kaila nodded. “Hate the bitch’s guts. I bring my people in to _help_ her, and she has the nerve to be self-righteous?” She tossed her head. “We’re at _war_ , here. There’s never been a threat like the Mohera, not since the first hunters.”

            Dean scoffed under his breath. “Where were you when _Lucifer_ happened?”

            Kaila ignored him. “I don’t think you people understand how serious this situation is.” She strode past Samuel, plucking the knife from his hand in passing and hopping up on the edge of the card table. Crossing her legs, she pointed to Sam with the tip of the blade. “Mohera eats _monster_ souls. Pest control.”

            “Yeah. Well, that stopped working when monsters started turning humans.” Sam tugged experimentally at his bonds; whoever had tied them, had done a good job. The knots were thick and complicated. Sam started picking at them with his fingertips.

            “That’s the _least_ of our problems right now.” Kaila said. “The more its appetite grows—well, you know monsters. They’re a minority.” She cracked a pitiless smile. “So the longer the Mohera feeds, the less monster souls there are to keep it going. So it turns to the next best thing: weaker game. You know what the means?” A beat of silence. “ _Human souls_. That girl who died in the alley, means it’s already _starting_.”

            “That doesn’t explain why you killed Jesse.” Sam bit the words out, his jaw clenched. “He wasn’t a part of this. _Any_ of it.”

            Kaila laughed sharply. “Wow, all that headspace and no brain.” She hopped off the table and bent over, tracing the contour of Sam’s jawline with the knife. “Weren’t you _listening_? This thing feeds on _souls_. Do you know how powerful a half-demon is? The kind of potential he had? That life-force inside of him could’ve made the Mohera strong enough to level half a state in one sneeze.”

            “So you should’ve _protected_ him!” Sam snapped. “Not slit his throat!”

            “I couldn’t take that chance.” Kaila shrugged. “And the way I hear it, neither could you. Or, weren’t you boys there the night Kyoshi killed the vampire nest?”

            Fury pulsed in Sam’s wrists and temples, ratcheting up toward a headache. “We are _nothing_ like you.”

            “That’s presumptuous. You don’t even _know me._ ”

            “You murder kids and you’re in the sack with the world’s biggest backstabbing asshole.” Dean glared at Samuel, who looked, as usual, unaffected. “Don’t think I want to know any more than that, sweetheart.”

            “I’m not out to save demon-spawn. I don’t care if they’re newborns or a hundred years old. What I need are _soldiers_. Soldiers that I can count on. Like my Rakshasa.” Kaila blew out a breath, ruffling her bangs. “But even _he_ turned on me.”

            Something uneasy slithered in Sam’s belly.

            “The hell does that mean?” Dean sounded like he didn’t really want to know the answer to that.

            “Oh, balls.” Bobby breathed, and John hung his head.

            “You wanna clue us in?” Dean’s tone was moving toward frantic.

            “What does she mean?” Sam ignored Kaila’s satisfied smirk. “ _Bobby_!”

            John picked up his head and leveled a world-weary look on Kaila. “She’s using monsters for shields.”

            Sam felt his jaw pop open. Dean swore under his breath.

            “Give the man a gold star!” Kaila smiled dazzlingly, leaning away from Sam. “It’s true. Although, I think a more politically-correct term would be ‘a walking diversion’.” She jerked the knife away from Sam’s face, opening a small, itching cut on his chin.

            “Tomato, toe-mah-toe.” Dean snarked.

            “Hilarious.” Kaila said flatly. “It was really Marik that gave me the idea. The way he had that Draugr totally whipped and shackled. It was a thing of beauty. So, I collected him. And then your grandpa. And the next thing I know we’re a hundred strong and the ranks just keep on growing.” She paused. “Of course, supply-and-demand makes getting the monster shields a little tricky.”

“And how’s that working for you, by the way?” Sam asked.

“Better than you’d expect, once we bag the little screwballs.” Kaila stuck out her lip and tilted her head with an ironic expression. “We brand them with a black-magic sigil that locks the Mohera out of their heads. Stops them from being able to tap in and communicate with it. And with each other. Isolate them, and they’re easy to control.”

“Works for humans, too.” Bobby’s jab had to be aimed at Samuel and Marik.

Sam wasn’t the only one who thought so; Marik’s face darkened and he took a step forward. Kaila jabbed her fist lightly into his sternum. “Don’t take the bait, you idiot. The old man just wants you riled up.”

Bobby looked—maybe—a little satisfied.

“Anyway, it makes sense.” Kaila went on. “Monsters are the only ones who can see the Mohera, after all. So why not put a few between the Big Bad, and us?”

“And when it sucks out their souls?” Sam demanded. “And gets _stronger_?”

“Well, better them than us. And besides, we usually have to dispatch them before the Mohera even gets close. Perks of the business.”

Dean raised his eyebrows in a blatantly judgmental way. “Talk about a frigid—”

Kaila cracked her elbow into his jaw, shutting him up, and Sam’s mind and body reacted by instinct, squirming him restlessly in his restraints. Dean fixed a contemptuous glare on Kaila.

“You know it’s just playing with fire.” His voice was thick and he spat blood onto the concrete floor.

“You’re one to talk.” Samuel drawled. “You’re hunting with a _Shapeshifter_.”

“This is different.” John said earnestly. “I can’t hurt my own boys.”

It was a mark of how far they’d come, Sam thought with dry amusement, that he didn’t even question that anymore. More than that, he _believed_ it. Front and back. They were safer with John around than with him gone.

Dean cleared his throat. “You know what I wanna know? How are you keeping these pets of yours fed? ’Cause, y’know, vampires are still bloodsuckers. Werewolves want hearts. Where’s all the fresh meant coming from?”

Kaila lifted one shoulder in a delicate little shrug. “I’ll tell you one thing: missing persons are hard to keep under wraps.”

Monster meat. _Table scraps_. She was throwing innocent people under the wagon to keep her monsters satisfied, to keep them between her people and their enemies.

“My God,” Sam murmured. “Y _ou’re_ a monster.”

Kaila’s eyebrows arched. “That’s hypocrisy in its finest form.” She flipped the knife idly around in her hand. “So. Sam Winchester. The boy—”

            “With the demon blood?” Dean plastered on a tolerant smile, cutting her off mid-word. “The guy who started the Apocalypse? Did a tour of duty downstairs while his body walked around soulless? Believe me, sister, we’ve heard it a hundred times. So you wanna do us all a favor?” And his voice, suddenly, steely cold, no humor on his face, “ _Shut up_.”

            Sam swung a surprised look on his brother; Dean didn’t even acknowledge him, was too busy giving Kaila the kind of defiant stare that could flay skin off of bones.

            It was the bluntest, cleanest forgiveness Sam had ever heard out of Dean’s mouth. And they’d been doing this job for a long time.

            He wrestled down his grateful half-smile, and tipped his head back to look at Kaila again.

            “You know you’re no better than the things we hunt?” Dean continued, fiercely, icily. “If you’re throwing people into the meat grinder just to keep your pet-monster-project up and running— _people. Seriously_? They’re the ones we’re supposed to save!”

            “Says who?”

            “Says _mortality_.” Sam interjected. “Why else would we hunt?”

            “Well, maybe to keep the human race from going extinct, sure. But the way I see it, every war has casualties.” Her mouth wrinkled at the corners in an unaffected expression. “Some people are luckier than others.”

            “You don’t get to play God.” Sam spat.

            “And neither do you.” Kaila retorted. “I’m not like you two. I don’t chase my tail around _every little_ vengeful spirit and poltergeist out there. I go for the _big_ game. The ones who pose the biggest threat. I’m out there putting _my_ neck on the line while you piss away your time on the small-fries. So, yeah. Sometimes it gets ugly. Sometimes it requires just a _little_ bit of sacrifice. But that’s just how the job goes.”

            Dean’s mouth jerked to the side. “I don’t think so. The _minute_ we stop seeing people as _people_ and start counting them like statistics, we lose our humanity.” He twisted his head around and gave Sam a full view of his right eye, swollen almost completely shut. “My dad taught me that.”

            “Now, that,” Kaila tapped the flat of the knife against the top of Dean’s head. To his credit, Dean didn’t flinch. “I believe. I mean,” She laughed. “Why do you think I told Samuel to find y’all in the first place?”

            Sam didn’t want to believe it, didn’t even, really, want to _think_ about it: the direction this whole conversation had been heading, right from the start. It’d been nagging in the back of his head but _no, no, dammit, no_.

            Sam didn’t realize he’s said that last bit under his breath until Kaila sauntered toward him. “Yes, yes, and _yes_ , Sam. I had you made from the second you got into town. And after that it was just a matter of planting all the pieces on the board that would funnel you dipshits right down into my hands.”

            “Not _us_.” Sam lifted his chin. “ _Say it_.”

            Kaila tilted her head to one side and held her silence for a second.

            “Fine.” She blinked owlishly. “ _John_. I wanted… _John._ ” She mimed a frame with her thumbs and index fingers, posing it toward the Shifter. “The _ultimate_ monster. With all the skills of a hunter and all the extra-special qualities of one of Purgatory’s very own.”

            Sam snapped his head around to stare John; his face had gone blank beneath his scruffy beard and the dark curls of his hair, but Sam saw the tic starting up behind his jaw. That same subtle jumping muscle that had always preluded a blow-out fight in the Winchester family.

            “You can kiss my ass, darlin’.” His voice, low and hoarse, and no-holds-barred. “I won’t work for a band of thieves.” His gaze turned to Samuel and Marik. “And _murderers_.”

            Kaila sighed, long and drawn out, emptying her lungs. “That’s too bad.”

            She reached back into the waistband of her jeans, pulled out a weapon that was easily as long as Sam’s forearm, and vivid white, like the glow of the sun swallowed down beneath opaque glass.

            A seraph sword.

            The archangel blade that Meg had stolen from them in Idaho.

            It glinted a vibrant, frosty white before careening down in a graceful arc.

            A hot scarlet drench splashed down Bobby’s left side as Kaila slit Rufus’s throat open to his spine. His head dangled down by a thread, shocked eyes staring wide at a grotesque angle.

            Bobby’s chest heaved with a wordless howl of anguish and pure raw ferocity. Sam was frozen, choking on a memory that wasn’t containable by the laws of reality: dragging his own _head_ behind him as he crawled across a floor made of blood and flesh and bone and hundreds of hands digging into his skin, trying to drag him down, the floor swallowing him in its vicious jaws while he—

            “Sammy!” Dean’s voice cut through the Hell-memory like an electric shock straight to his nerve-endings. “Stay with me!” He hadn’t taken his eyes off of Kaila.

            Sam shook his head, shook the memory off, swallowed down the bile.

Kaila wiped the archangel blade clean on her thigh. “You know, your grandpa’s a nice edition to the hunt.” She eyed Sam and Dean narrowly. “But I’d _really_ like to have a full set.”

“Go burn in Hell.” Dean said, and Sam could tell he _meant_ it.

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” Kaila sneered. “This is the only chance I’m giving you, boys. You and the Shifter join in the rat race, or you’ll end up like Jesse. And the Rakshasa. And this guy.” She kicked Rufus’s leg and Bobby lurched against his restraints with a snarl.

“Nah.” Dean’s voice was shaking with barely-controlled rage. “I think we’re good.”

“Too bad.” Kaila studied Rufus’s body with disinterest, then wound her way between the poles. She crouched behind Dean, draping one arm over his shoulder, along his chest, and rested the knife against his throat with the other hand. “How about this, John: you serve me, or I cut your boy open and you watch him bleed.”

“Gy…ugh.” Sam fought against his restraints, watching Dean. Other than tilting his head up to shift the knife off his Adam’s apple, he didn’t look too concerned.

“Don’t listen to her, dad.” Dean said forcefully. “Never works out for us, right? She’s gonna kill me either way, she doesn’t know how to play well with others.”

“Dean!” Sam protested.

“Shut up, Sam.”

“No. I’m not going to watch you die, Dean.” John said. “Even if she puts my head on the chopping block. If you boys and Bobby work together, you can make it out of this. Haven’t found a prison cell or a pair of ropes that could hold you in yet. Remember Houston, in ninety-five?”

Dean cracked a reflective smirk. “ _Yeah_ , good times.”

Even Sam had to admit that that had been one of their better runs. Him and Dean had gotten themselves out of a holding cell before Social Services could arrive and take them away from John, using nothing but a pair of underwear, a paperclip, Dean’s watch and a pillow. Sam wondered if the guard who’d been in charge of them still had nightmares about it.

“Keep telling yourself that.” Marik cracked. “I’ve hunted with these boys before. Half the time they don’t know their asses from a teakettle.”

“That’s a fact.” Samuel agreed.

John cut a look their way that could’ve turned sand to glass. “I’ll do it.”

“No! Dammit! _Just, no_!” Dean barked.

“We wouldn’t be in this situation if you’d done like I told you and taken Sam away from that mansion.” John cut him off with that same cruel authority Sam had known his whole life. “Now I’m doing what needs to be done.” He met Kaila’s eyes unswervingly. “I’ll do it.”

A feral, victorious smile curled Kaila’s lips. “I thought so.”

She plucked the knife delicately from Dean’s throat and pirouetted onto her feet, swaying her way over to kneel in front of John. She braced her hand on the pipe, above his head, and knelt in front of him, meeting his defiant dark eyes.

Sam both heard and almost _felt_ it when Kaila curled up her fist and socked John under the ribs. The sound that torqued out of throat was barely human, strangled where he tried to repress it. It drilled into Sam’s heart.

And Kaila didn’t let up. She hammered on him, blow-by-blow, doubling John over as far as the ropes around his arms would allow. Sam heard a rib crack; John didn’t make any noise after that initial, surprised cough of agony. Just slumped, farther and farther down.

“Stop it!” Sam howled. “Stop! He didn’t _do_ anything! _You’re killing him_!”

“Shut your piehole.” Marik growled.

Sam bucked madly against the restraints, every instinct inside of him snapping like a livewire. He wasn’t seeing a Shifter, wasn’t seeing his friend, it was his _dad_ , it was _Dad_ and this bitch was going to _kill_ him. Dean was thrashing just as violently as Sam was, sawing bloody abrasions into his skin. He had murder in his eyes.

Kaila’s fist landed a powerful punch over John’s heart and his eyes widened for a split second before he went limp.

She reached behind him, letting up on the constant assault for a second before giving his shoulder a solid wrench. It popped out of its socket audibly and John sucked in a shuddering breath, rallying, but with a misty eyes clouded by pain.

Sam forced himself to go still, to just listen; John’s breaths wheezed, but not in a way that suggested a punctured lung. He looked more dazed than anything.

Kaila shoved his head back by his throat, that smug expression back on her face. “Feeling better, John?”

            The Shifter’s jaw worked for a second, and then he spat in her face.

            Kaila landed a cracking blow to his mouth, whipping his head sideways.

            “Lay off, bitch!” Dean snarled.

            Kaila snapped a glare onto him. “You don’t get it, do you? The only want to make these _things_ obey is to break them. One piece at a time, until they’re loyal. Like my Rakshasa used to be. It’s the only way we can all be prepared to take the sword and go after the Mohera. But I need him.” She turned back to John with a sultry tilt of her head. “Hard and broken and _oh, so loyal_.”

            Sam gave one last desperate tug against his restraints. “Dad.”

            He knew. _Knew_ it wasn’t John Winchester, that it never would be. But if hearing it, if _saying_ it gave any of them any scrap of hope that they could make it out of this, then Sam would scream it. Until he was _hoarse_.

            Dean’s approach was a little rougher around the edges: “Fight back, you bastard!”

John chuckled throatily, and lifted his head. His brows were pulled low over eyes sunken with pain, and blood dribbled freely from his mouth. But his gaze, as it was, had focused. And there was something there that Sam had seen in fleeting glimpses over the years. Something that had seemed as elusive as _normal_ , when he was younger.

            “I’ll be just fine.” He said, softly. “Don’t you boys worry about me.” He looked from Sam to Dean, and Sam didn’t have to follow his gaze to know Dean must look as desperate as Sam felt. “I’m so proud of you two. Of the hunters…of the _men_ you’ve become.”

            Something liquid and molten burned behind Sam’s eyes. He blinked rapidly, scrunching his face, fighting against it.

            “Dad, _no_.” Dean whispered.

            “I think we’re done.” Kaila straightened up. “Marik, take these three down the pipes and drop them off behind bars until I figure out what to do with them.”

            Marik nodded. “Samuel?”

            Kaila tossed them the regular knife and Marik slit Dean’s leg loose first, then unknotted a couple inches of the rope, freeing him but keeping his hands tied. He hauled Dean onto his feet and crammed him against the pole, keeping him in place while Samuel loosed Bobby.

            Kaila stepped over to Sam, slit the length of rope free and lowered her mouth to his ear. “Just for the record, sweetie. I would’ve _loved_ having you on our side.”

            Sam cracked his head sideways against hers, knocking her reeling. “I don’t want any _part_ of this!”

            “Nice hit, Sammy!” Dean’s praise was cut off with a grunt that probably meant Marik had punched him.

            Kaila sat up, rubbing her temple with her arm. “Well, you’re a part of it now, Sam. One way or another.”

            John’s eyes found Sam’s for a moment; his head slowly, wearily tucked in.

            Another hunter stepped forward to grab Sam’s restraints and drag him to his feet, and they had no choice but to leave John behind. 

 


	11. Chapter 11

_May 11 th, 2012_

_Unknown_ _, Japan_

 

The tunnel was dark, with rust-colored sludge on the walls.

            Marik, Samuel and some other hunter Dean didn’t know manhandled the three of them into the sluice and turned right, shunting them down a tunnel that scooped down low on their heads. Beside Dean, Sam had to hunch over to keep his head from bumping.

            “You good?” Dean asked lowly, and Sam’s only response was the blink at him with big bright eyes that reflected the same anger and wretchedness that Dean had felt, watching Kaila wale on John. Dean didn’t think he’d ever get the sound of crunching bones and splitting skin out of his head.

            “Yeah.” He looked straight ahead, into a darkness that was becoming deeper and wetter as the light from the main room faded behind them. “Me neither.”

            Bobby walked ahead of them, more compliant than Dean had ever seen him. But if he was being honest, putting up a fight in this crawlspace wouldn’t do much good. They were just as likely to pull muscles as to hit anything; wasn’t even sure he could wedge himself around where he was right now without having to put his feet up on Sam’s shoulders.

            Dean’s blood was boiling just under the surface of his skin; whatever he’d been expecting when he’d first seen that broad, it hadn’t been this. Rufus with his throat slit and John as her little Shifter puppet. That put killing her on the top of Dean’s to-do list. Rule Number One; never screw with Dean Winchester’s family. Not unless you want him on your ass for the rest of his life.

            Dean cocked his head back to look in the general direction of the tunnel ceiling. “Hey, Marik. Or, uh, Rigel. Which one of those are you goin’ by these days?” He waited, didn’t get an answer out of hunter. “Man, I knew you were one belly-to-the-ground piece’a crap, but a Spice Girl’s roadie? That’s—that’s pretty sad.”

            Marik swore so violently Dean’s eyebrows rose. _Not bad_. The guy was a loose canon, Dean had figured that one out in Essex.

            “Shoulda just let the Draugr get her claws in you.” Dean drawled. “Y’know, you weren’t trading up with Kaila. You, uh, payin’ her favors to keep you off the streets?”

            Marik suggested Dean do something that was anatomically impossible.

            Sam met Dean’s eyes in the gloom, mouthed, _What are you doing_?

            And Dean mouthed back, _Just go with it_.

            Which, in their crazy lives, could entail a lot of things. Jumping out of a three-story building, tackling a moldy rotting monster, lightning up a coffin _while one of them was waist-deep in it_. And always boiled down to the same bottom line: _You do what I say, you follow my lead_.

            But Dean had a pretty good feeling he couldn’t crack Marik; Samuel was gonna keep him in check. And they didn’t have any dirt on the other guy.

            So Dean switched tactics and went for the oversized rock on top of the pile. “Hey, gramps, I get it. What’s so special about her, why you’re followin’ Wonder Barbie around.”

            “Is that so?” Samuel sounded amused, like he thought Dean was about to deliver the punchline to the world’s most hilarious joke.

            “Yup.” Dean rumpled his shoulders. “But you can’t use her as a replacement. She’s not _mom_.”

            That did it; from the corner of his eye Dean saw Samuel swipe Marik against the wall and lunge for him. Dean ducked, and Sam was already reacting. Arching his body away, then bringing his bound hands up over his head and around Samuel’s neck. He threw his weight back against the wall, wrists jerking tight, cutting off Samuel’s air.

            “Dean! His gun!” Sam howled.

            Dean took a dive for the old man and came up short; Marik was right in between them. His knee shot up and cracked Dean stomach, knocking the wind out of him; Marik’s hand circled his throat and he pounded Dean into the wet cement on the bottom of the sluice. His head splashed in an inch of running water and ricocheted, popping dazzling lights behind his eyes. Before he could get his breath back, Marik knelt on his back and dragged Dean’s head up. The cold steel of a knife kissed his throat, and Dean swallowed, hard.

            “I’ll slit his throat, man, you know I will.” Marik growled.

            A hulking shadow inside of shadows, Sam didn’t release his hold on Samuel until Marik thumbed the knife down Dean’s throat, opening a cut right along his trachea.

            “All right!” Sam loosened up his grip and pulled his hands back over Samuel’s head, holding them up in surrender. “All right! Just—let him go!”

            Marik threw Dean’s head back down into the water and got off of him. Dean dragged up onto his hands and knees just in time to see Samuel sock Sam hard in the gut, doubling him over with his hand on the wall.

            Dean puffed air in and out until his breathing got back to normal; Marik gave him a solid kick in the ribs to get him back up on his feet and they started walking again. It took Dean a few minutes to realize that Bobby hadn’t made a move to help them the whole time. That just pissed him off even more.

            Samuel finally told them to stop. Walked past them, put his hand out and Dean heard him knock on something metal, the sound echoing its way back down the sluice behind them. Keys chewed against each other, a lock clunked and Samuel reached around, grabbed the back of Dean’s neck and thrust him forward. Dean turned around and caught Sam when his brother staggered in; Bobby sort of moseyed in by choice.

            When the door slammed, Dean could tell where they were a little more easily: someone had installed a set of steel bars on the last twenty feet of the sluice, probably to keep animals out. Behind them, the water drained out through a grill in the floor. And there was an iron chain on the bars in front of them. Padlocked.

            Samuel smiled grimly, popped the padlock shut. “You boys just sit tight. We’ll find a use for you, same way we did for the Shifter.”

            They headed back down the watercourse and Dean put his back to the wall, sliding down until he was sitting. The Army Band was playing Howitzer percussion between his ears and his legs felt funny. Concussed. Maybe. His head had bounced pretty hard back there.

            Sam, on the other hand, had taken the gut-punch like a champ. The loss of John, not so much. He started rattling and thumping on the steel bars, snarling in a way that didn’t make sense because it wasn’t words. Didn’t _need_ words. Was just all of Sam’s pain, and his helplessness, and his temper letting itself out. And six days out of the week Dean would’ve been all for that. Better than having to go on some pop-psyche show for anger-management classes a few years down the road.

            Today wasn’t exactly a good day for it; actually, _right now_ wasn’t the best _time_ , with the cannonfire inside Dean’s head just ratcheting up every time Sam slammed his shoulder into the door and tried to break the lock.

            “Sam.” Dean said; kept his voice even. Sam just kept hammering into the bars. Kid was gonna give himself a bruise so big he could wear it for a shirt. “Sam!”

            “Nyuh!” Sam grabbed hold of the door with one hand and swung his full weight around, slamming into it hard enough to rattle it. Six-foot-four of angry Sammy was enough to send a momma bear running for cover, but against the might of man-made prison bars he was about as effective as a turtle’s shell in a nuclear holocaust.

            “ _Sammy_!” Dean snapped, and that finally got him to let up. Gagging for breath, Sam swirled almost drunkenly around to face him. Dean met his brother’s panicked eyes, knew what Sam had to be thinking: if Kaila had done that much to torture John in front of them, and they still had him, what the hell _else_ did they have in mind? And if the Shifter was as much like their dad as Dean had him pegged for, as long as Kaila couldn’t use Sam and Dean against him anymore, he wouldn’t knuckle under to her commands.

            And that was the part that Sam had already figured out, Dean realized. And it was just a matter of time before Kaila reached that conclusion, too: they were John’s weak-spot. Keep them around, his walking kryptonite, and she could poke them full of holes and keep him under control.

            Sam sagged with his back to the bars, reading something in Dean’s face that probably tipped him off.

            “We have to get out of here, Dean.” Sam said, like it would be as easy as popping the lock open and strolling back up to the surface.

            “I know.” Dean squinted his eyes shut. “Bobby.”

            No answer; so Dean peeked open one of his eyes.

            Bobby was staring at the dried brownish-red blood on his forearm, his eyes totally blank. Dean had never seen Bobby at a loss for words, or grieving more than he was pissed off. But this was it; Bobby had just watched his friend’s head get whacked almost completely off, cold-turkey, no warning, and even he was showing the strain from it. Mainly, looking like he wasn’t even inside his own head anymore.

            “Bobby.” Dean repeated. “ _Bobby_! _Hey_!”

            Bobby blinked, turning slowly toward Dean. Dean cocked his head expectantly, and Bobby finally shook himself out of it.

            “Here.” He ripped a threadbare scrap off the bottom of his shirt and passed it to Dean. “For the,” He pointed to the place on his own forehead where Dean had smacked down on the concrete.

            “Thanks.” Dean leaned his head back against the tunnel wall and draped the fabric over his cut head and swollen eye. Insult to injury.

            “So, what now?” Sam limped over to join them, curling one arm awkwardly around his middle. Probably was starting to feel the side-affects of bulldozing the bars.

            “Pick the lock?” Dean suggested.

            “’Case you hadn’t noticed, they plucked us dry. So unless you got a lock-pick somewhere they wouldn’t search…” Bobby let that one trail off; he didn’t even _need_ to finish it.

            Sam nodded toward the back of the room “If we could pull up that grate—”

            A murky, strangled moan bled into the darkness. Sam was on his feet in a second, no sign of weakness in the way he was tensing up from shoulders to boots. Dean rose beside him, the walls doing a curvy dance for a second before his head cleared.

            “What in the name’a—?” Bobby growled.

            “S-Sam?” The voice was breathless and rusty, but it was definitely a girl’s. “Sam, s’that you?”

            Sam’s head jilted to one side. “ _Gwen_?”        

            She dragged herself out of the corner beside the grate. And no wonder none of them had _seen_ her, she was dressed totally in black and the rags that were sort of passing for clothes had gotten sopped on so close to her body they were like a second skin. That was as much as Dean could tell in the almost-total darkness.

            “Hey, hey-hey-hey.” Sam said quickly, meeting her halfway across their little mini-prison cell. He crouched and curled one arm around her back and Gwen kind of wrapped herself around his other arm. And seeing this ball-busting chick huddled like a half-drowned cat against his brother just made Dean want to beat the fear of God into Kaila, Samuel, and Marik. All over again.

            “I thought you were dead.” Sam said flatly. “I thought Samuel killed you.”

            “Oh, they tried.” Gwen’s voice was unsteady, probably because she was shivering hard enough to vibrate both her _and_ Sam. “But in a job like this? They can’t afford to waste fresh meat.”

            “That’s cheerful.” Dean knelt beside her and Sam. “How long’ve they been keeping you like this?”

            “Three weeks? A month?” Gwen sniffed. “Hard to tell. My watch busted a while back. I just know they bring me food. Sometimes.”

            “And you’ve been here? This whole time?” Sam sounded outraged.

            “Not in Japan, no.” Gwen’s voice was hoarse when she tried to steady it. “They dragged their convoy across half…the ’States. Before they flew out here.”

            “Adding monsters to their little collection.” Bobby hovered over them with his arms crossed and the shadows carving lines into his face.

            “Every place we go has a prison.” Gwen said. “Sometimes, if we’re lucky, it’s this size or bigger. But try being crammed into a box on the back of a plane for seventeen hours. I was awake for _that_.”

            Sam’s eyes flashed to Dean’s, distressed.

            “What’re you in for?” Dean asked.

            Gwen’s laugh sounded like a cough. “ _Insubordination_. I didn’t think we should watch a couple of kids get mauled by werewolves on the off-chance we could save them and add them to the army before they bled out. Miss Roth didn’t really agree with that. So she chucked me in the Iron Maiden, metaphorically speaking.”

            “And Samuel backed her play?” Sam demanded; as if, after everything, he still had some hope that the man wasn’t completely and totally scrambled.

            “You ask me? It was probably his idea to use me for monster-chow in the first place, instead of giving me a warrior’s death: quick and painless.”

            “Yeah, well, we’re not samurai, ’cuz.” Dean studied the cage bars over his shoulder. “You tried picking the lock?”

            Gwen really _did_ cough this time. “I may be sicker than a dog, but I’m not stupid, Dean. I came at that padlock with everything I got. Bitch is stuck tight.”

            “And we’re back at square one.” Dean muttered under his breath.

            Gwen hacked into her hand, then looked up with a tired smile. “It’s good to see you on your feet again, Sam. You looked like crap the last time I saw you.”

            “I think you look bad enough for the both of us.” Sam said gently, laying a hand on her forehead. “How long’ve you been sick?”

            “There’s not a dry inch of floor in this hellhole and I’ve been down here for a week, Sam. Sorry if I can’t think of an exact date and time.”

            Sometimes Dean remembered that these people were related to his mom.

            “Did Valenka out there bring anyone by lately? A girl about, uh, yea-high,” Dean held his hand up. “Long black hair and a kickass attitude?”

            “There hasn’t been anyone down here for a couple of days. I think.”

            “Maybe Key and her brothers made it out before Samuel grabbed us.” Sam said hopefully.

            Or maybe Samuel had just wasted all of them and only taken the people he needed to use as leverage.

            “Yeah, maybe.”

            Sam’s mouth tugged down at the corners; he sat Gwen up, shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. She tried to shove it back at him.

            “Sam, I’m f—” She cut off, dissolving into another coughing fit that it made it sound like she was about to throw up a lung. She sagged against Sam and he wrapped one arm around her shoulders, looking up at Bobby.

            “We need to get out of here.” He said; and like always, having someone to take care of made Sam focused.

            Bobby started pacing, scrubbing his fingers over his beard. “Well, you can bet Miley Cyrus has been coverin’ her ass. Breakin’ outta her jail cell won’t be easy.”

            “Yeah, well, it’s like John said.” Dean braced a hand on his knee and pushed himself to his feet. “They haven’t found a way to keep us tied up yet.” He lifted his arms out from his body with an ironic smile.

            “This might just be the exception, idjit.”

            Dean frowned. “That’s great, Bobby, just _rain on my parade_.”

            “I’m just sayin’.”

            “Guys.” Sam’s voice was a warning.

            Footsteps were splashing back down the sluice.

            Sam shifted, buffing Gwen behind him a little bit, and it was a pretty clear indication of how sick she was that she didn’t even try to argue it this time. Dean and Bobby stepped in front of them, shoulder-to-shoulder, and traded dry glances.

            The key rattled in the lock; Marik was back, and if that smug look on his face was telling stories, things were about to go downhill for the Winchesters, plus one Campbell and one Singer.

            “You miss us?” Dean cracked.

            “Not hardly.” Marik swung the door open. “Orders are to take those two,” He pointed to Bobby and the huddled, soaked shadow of Gwen, “To the bodyguards. Hunted up some local something-or-another, and the damned things are hungry.”

            “So you feed ’em.” Dean shook his head. “My God, this chick is a whole new breed of fugly. She’s not out to save people. Just to keep her nickel-sized ass on top.” He stepped in front of Bobby with both arms raised out protectively. “You’re gonna have to get through me.”

            Sam gave Gwen’s shoulders one last squeeze and unfolded in a standing position beside Dean. “Yeah. Me, too.”

            “That’s great.” Marik rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Because we only really need _one_ Winchester alive.”

            He drew down on them so fast Dean didn’t even have time to flinch. A few yards between them and the gun that was aimed straight for Sam’s heart.

            “Sam,” Dean said, cautiously. Hoping Sam got the hint, _Don’t move_.

            A banging echo ricocheted down the tunnel from the main room, and Marik tilted his head around for a quick look.

            That was all Dean needed. He flung himself at Marik, catching up to him in two strides and grabbing his wrists, snapping the gun up. It discharged, Dean felt a zinging twinge of pain that he choked down, the report of gunfire leaving his left ear ringing. He followed through with his attack, jamming Marik’s arms up and kneeing him solid in the jewels. Marik groaned and doubled over and Sam was right there, catching the side of his head and slamming it into the bars. The impact vibrated the metal under Dean’s back and Marik dropped.

            Dean let go of him, stepping back and feeling for the center of the pain in his arm; nick shot. It’d scooped out a little flesh but not much, he’d be fine.

            “Grab the gun.” Dean ordered, and Sam picked it up, checked the clip and nodded briefly. Dean went back to Bobby and Gwen. “Getting past all these guys isn’t gonna be easy. We’ll have to knock in a few heads.”

            “After what they did to Rufus? And John?” Bobby snarled. “Boy, I welcome it.”

            “That’s what I like to hear.” Dean offered Gwen his hand and she accepted it, let him pull her to her feet. She kept Sam’s jacket pinned around her shoulders. “You think you can make it?”

            “Give me a gun and I’ll shoot anyone you put in front of me.” Gwen sniffed.

            “One thing we gotta remember.” Dean said. “We’re not leaving without John. Understood?”

            “John, _who_?” Gwen demanded.

            “He’s a friend. Bad guys got ’im.” Bobby explained briefly.

            “Guys!” Sam’s sharp voice killed the conversation. “Something’s going on out there.”

            They clustered up in the doorway of their little prison, listening to the trickle of the water and the—

            Thumping from back out in the main room.

            Someone screamed.

            Dean met Sam’s eyes for a second, then pulled Gwen past him. “C’mon, let’s move!” He shoved Marik into the prison cell, banged the lock shut and took off running with Sam, Bobby and Gwen on his heels, back up the slippery waterway. It took them maybe two, three minutes to get back out into the bright light.

            And they stepped right into a massacre.

            Bodies flying like leaves in a hurricane, smacking off walls; Dean watched the table flip over, scattering paper everywhere. The portable floods they’d been using to keep the tunnel lit were popping, one by one.

            All the evidence pretty much spoke for itself, the defining factor: monsters in full-out monster form bouncing and ricocheting off of the smack-center middle of the room.

            _Mohera_.

            Sniffed out the monster souls. Found itself a breeding ground of food.

            Dean’s brain snapped into action. He grabbed Gwen’s shoulder and pushed her back into the curve of the sluiceway. “Stay down!” He vaulted the edge and ran for the nearest body, rolling it over; stone-cold dead. He turned to Sam and Bobby. “Fine someone who’s alive! Try and find out where John is!”

            Sam nodded mutely and took off, but Bobby stuck close to Dean. Dodging monsters and the swishes of just plain old-fashioned _bad feeling_ that told Dean when the Mohera was trying to pinwheel in the tight space, he stopped for a half a second to watch. And had to admit, even grudgingly, that the monster-tamers had a point. They were using their meatsuit shields to lead the Mohera back up the sewers, probably toward daylight.

            Didn’t make it right. Just made sense.

            “Dean!” Bobby’s voice was a warning and Dean dropped to one knee; Bobby fired a sawed-off half-blind, hit something. Dean turned around on his knees, took one look at the bright blue eyes and Edward Scissorhands fingernails, and realized this werewolf was on a leash—metaphorically speaking.

            And that leash was in Samuel Campbell’s hand.

            The werewolf slashed out a hand, catching Bobby in the face and opening three huge bleeding gashes down his jowls. Before Dean could straighten up the thing had him by his throat and pinned up against the wall, and Samuel was sneering at him, keeping the sights of his gun trained on Bobby—

            His gun.

            The _Colt_.

            Pounding home Dean’s theory that Kaila was in bed with Meg.

            “I guess you’re the expendable one.” Samuel said with a sly grin. “We’ll just use Sam for leverage over the Shifter.”

            “Guess again.”

            Samuel barely had time to turn his head a full one-eighty before his brains exploded; Sam didn’t even flinch from his sideways stance, just swung his sights up and nailed the werewolf straight in the heart. Silver bullet. It dropped and let up on Dean and he doubled over, choking down more air. He got his bearings in a haze of gunsmoke and looked up at Sam.

            His little brother. Sam. Standing over the corpse of their grandfather with his shaggy brown hair hanging across his forehead and blood on his arms and that gun in his hand. Totally still.

            Seizure?

            “Sammy?” Dean said, cautiously, taking a step forward.

            Sam’s head swung up, and something disappeared from his eyes; something he was trying pretty hard to hide.  “I’m good.” Sam shook himself. “I checked the monster cages. They’re empty. No sign of Kaila.”

            “Son of a bitch.” Dean swore.

            “Look, maybe we should just make a run for it.” Sam suggested. “Grab Gwen and—”

            Some invisible force smacked Sam into the air, catapulting him across the sluiceway. He hit the far wall and tumbled down into the water and didn’t get back up. Dean was one step after him when something hooked him from behind and dragged him toward the mouth of the tunnel. Dean tried to wrap his arm around one of the pipes but couldn’t get a grip on the slippery surface.

            Somewhere between _oh, crap_ and _this thing is gonna eat me alive_ , Dean felt the razor pressure on the back of his neck release. He thumped to a stop and rolled over, aiming himself right into a kick from Kaila on her way past, heading for the exit.

            Dean wormed himself around and lunged after her, grabbing her ankle and slamming her down on the sloped tunnel floor. Her chin split, cutting loose a shower of blood, and she spun over and kicked him in the solar plexus. Dean spat up his air but held on to her ankle, finally straggling in enough to speak.

            “Gotcha, bitch.”

            He dragged up onto his knees and hauled her closer, landing a good hard punch to her face. Kaila’s head rolled for a split-second and then she was on the rebound, catching his next hit and giving as good as she’d gotten. They flipped across the floor wrestling for the upper hand and Dean was bracing himself to smack into the invisible monster munchy-machine that had doubled back and started terrorizing the hub again.

            Kaila was good; in hand-to-hand, almost as good as he was. Matching his blows and slipping through his holds. He probably had fifty solid pounds on her, though. The catch: head wound. So when Kaila straddled him, picked his head up and smacked it on the floor, Dean almost threw up. And stayed down, frozen.

            Kaila dug her steel-toed boot into his back. “Dispensable.” She crushed his face into the floor and stood up. “Goodbye, Dean.”

            “I’ll kill you,” Dean grated out, waiting for the feeling to swarm back into his limbs. “ _Bitch_.”

            “I don’t think you’ll have the chance.”

            For a few seconds, the only thing Dean saw was an itchy gray-edged darkness inside his eyes. Then he felt hands knotting in the back of his jacket, hauling him up. Walls swirled around him—green, too uniform to be a motel—

            “Dean? Dean…Dean! Say something.”

            Not Sam. Not Bobby, either. A girl—

            “Kaila!” Dean snarled, jerking back to awareness, hearing a piercing, shrieking squall that had to be the Mohera.

            He was on his back, staring up into two huge, almond-shaped brown eyes.

            “She’s gone.” Kyoshi’s dark hair spilled over her shoulder, brushing into Dean’s face. He sneezed it off.

            “What’re you doing here?” His eyes listed past her. “You brought the boys, huh?”

            “No time.” Key hauled him to his feet, with a little help from Dean, who was finally getting his sea legs back. “We need to leave, now, before it’s over.”

            “Before what—?”

            “Come on!” Key hauled him staggering up the sloped tunnel and Dean finally realized that he could hear a rapid-fire beeping, like an egg-timer on steroids.

            “Is that a—?”

            “Faster!” Key urged, but Dean was digging his heels in. Disoriented, but he had his priorities straight.

            “Sam!”

            “My brothers found them. It’s only us left!” Key pushed and pounded at his chest until Dean reluctantly swiveled and followed her up the shaft toward—

            The first explosion turned the solid concrete under their feet into restless waves. Dean went down on his knees without realizing he’d hit the ground, everything spinning in one dizzy blur. He was the first one moving this time, pulling Key up, and they managed to put another couple feet of distance between them and the hub before the second ninja-bomb went off, crumbling the walls around them.

            “You tryin’ to trap that thing in there?” Dean demanded, shielding his face from falling debris with one arm, and not breaking his stride.

            “Just until we find a better solution!”

            They hit a dead end with an open grate ten feet over their heads, and Key put two fingers into her mouth and whistled; a steel-corded ladder swung over the edge and Key jumped, shimmying her way up to the top. Dean rocked his shoulders and hopped on behind her, pulling himself up into sunlight so bright it seared his eyes. He flopped over onto grass and stayed down for a second, letting his eyes adjust.

            A hand patted his shoulder, then his forehead, checking his wound. “Dean. You with me?”

            _Sam_. “I’m good. Dude, I’m good. Lay off.” Dean swiped Sam’s hand clumsily away and sat up, blinking to orient himself.

            They were sitting on top of a small grassy hill, roadside; on the other edge of the two-lane highway, there was a drop off into a city, and the ocean.

            Ocean. Docks. _Boats_.

            “Can the Mohera swim?” Dean rasped, getting to his feet. Sam rose beside him.

            “Uh. I don’t—?”

            “Sam!” Dean was already running. “Can the damn thing _swim_?”

            They bolted across two lanes of traffic, skirting honking motorists and catching curses in a couple different languages. Dean vaulted the guardrail on the far side and ran out-of-control down the next hill over, into the city.

            It wasn’t huge, kind of slummy where they ended up, with the taller buildings throwing down shadows from their right. Dean didn’t even notice the stinging pain in his head building up or the way his lungs burned. One thought: docks.  Get to the _docks_. Hungry, unhappy eyes followed them through the winding streets but thank God it was more or less a direct shot through to the water.

            The asphalt bottomed out into gravely sand and they slowed down, kicking up a spray of dust into the air. Dean swept the entire shore with one glance, spotted the huge, three-level fishing boat that was casting off a few docks down.

            With a familiar face in a sea of familiar faces getting carted inside.

            “No!” Dean poured on the fuel again, skidding down the dock and almost flipping into the water. He drew his gun and fired on the boat but it was too late, it was too damned _late_ , because by the time he got there it was already shoving out into the water. Kaila leaned around the flagpole on the back of the boat and blew him a kiss. Dean timed the last few shots but they all pinged back, totally useless.

            So that didn’t leave him a choice; he trudged back to Sam, his brother kneeling in the sand, holding himself awkwardly like he was still hurting from the Mohera blasting him against the wall. And Dean was willing to bet they hadn’t even trapped the thing. Monsters—human and supernatural—had a habit of busting up the Winchesters’ plans.

            “What do we do now?” Sam asked, and he sounded like he really wanted to know; let Dean call the shots. Whatever Dean said, Sam would do. But right then Dean didn’t have an answer.

            “Go find Rufus,” Was all he could manage.

            Sam nodded, too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, he deserves a real burial. A hunter’s funeral. Not down in that sewer, not—with that thing.”

            “You got that right, Sammy.”

            Key, Bobby and the rest of the Power Rangers squad were only about ten minutes behind them, but it was enough. Enough for the grief of failure to start fading, and the hunger for revenge to take over.

            “Case closed?” Someone—Wataru, maybe?—whispered.

            “So it would seem.” Key sounded sad; Dean could feel her watching him.

            “Then we won!”

            Dean could’ve punched that smug sucker right in the face.

            Turns out, he didn’t need to.

            “No.” Key murmured. “I don’t believe we did.”

            Dean stood behind Sam and they watched the boat swallow down on the horizon.

 

 


	12. Epilogue

_May 15 th, 2012_

_Shinden_ _Mansion, Kitaibaraki, Japan_

The harsh smell of smoke and gasoline still clung to Dean’s jacket when he went looking for Key, to say goodbye.

            Everything was packed in the van, ready to go to the train station, and then the airport. They’d burned Rufus the night before, and sat vigil beside his funeral pyre until dawn. Even Gwen, who’d been leaning heavily against Sam from the get-go and had to sit down five minutes after she stepped outside. It’d been Bobby’s idea to scatter Rufus’s ashes, instead of burying him. So no one could dig him up.

It was behind them—right behind them—but Dean had done his grieving. He was just sick and tired and ready to go home.

The only thing missing: Kyoshi. Dean hadn’t seen her around much, still recovering from losing five of her friends in the Mohera’s attack on the mansion and another one in the sewers. Whenever Dean did see her, or more like a shadow of her, from a distance, she was wandering out to the forest.

            So, with his duffle over his shoulder, that’s where Dean went looking.

            He wasn’t sure why it meant so much to him to not leave loose ends hanging out here. Just felt like the right thing to do.

            It wasn’t hard to follow her trail; for a ninja, Key could leave a pretty obvious trail when she was moving through underbrush: snapped twigs, footprints in the mud. Dean followed it with his head down, for the most part, so he was a little surprise when he stepped out in to the middle of a prayer shine.

            Didn’t know much about Japan, not half as much as Sam and nowhere near as much as Bobby. But the little pool and the weird white cat statue with one paw up, Dean had seen that in enough Chinatown, Karate Kid movies to know it was important.

            That, and Key was kneeling with her hands folded.

            Dean leaned back against the tree and watched her; she was out of her ninja clothes and in a silky dress and, okay, she didn’t look half bad. Dean filed that away for blackmail or, more likely, leverage for a sake run some other time.

            After a few minutes, Key picked up her head and Dean caught the edge of her smile from his angle. “It is believed that the Maneki Neko brings good luck.”

            “A lucky cat.” Dean snorted. “That’s a new one. I thought you were supposed to die if one those things crossed your path.” When she didn’t answer, just kissed two fingers and touched the statue’s head, Dean shifted uncomfortably. “What’re you, uh, wishing for. Praying for?”

            “For your safe travels.” Key swirled around to face him. “How is your head?”

            He had a goose-egg the size of Sam’s fist, and a concussion to go along with it. Dean shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

            “No doubt.” Key obliged. They sort of looked away from each other, awkwardly, because _hell_ if Dean knew how to act with some cat statue giving him the creepy eye.

            “Hey, thanks.” He said, finally, swallowing down his pride. “For everything. You guys weren’t the easiest to work with, but, uh…” He rubbed his jaw, raised his hand in a resigned gesture, then slapped it down on his leg and half-smiled, dryly. “You saved our asses. So, I owe you.”

            “No debt. You stayed and fought with us when you could have run. That takes great courage.”

            Dean tilted his head, taking that. He dropped itself onto the stone bench beside the shrine and laid his duffle across his knees. “Y’know, you guys do a pretty good job. Working as a team. Most hunters I’ve seen, they don’t manage it. They turn into a buncha dirty cutthroats, stabbing each other in the back.”

            Key sank down beside him. “Like Kaila?”

            “Yeah.” Dean nodded. “Guess you guys are making me rethink the whole teamwork thing.”

            “I don’t see us as a team, so much as a family.” Key admitted.

            Dean almost smiled. “I can respect that.”

            Silence filtered in, the water falling over the rocks in the pool and the cat statue waving at the empty air.

“Can I ask you something?” Dean finally said, quietly, and Key nodded. “What’s the history with you two, anyway? Huh?”

            Key hooked her hair behind her ear and studied her hands. “Kaila’s father brought her here when she was very young, just for a few weeks. I did not like the way she was trained. Even as a child she was ruthless. Coldhearted. Mamoru,” The name strangled a little bit in her throat. “Used the term ‘sociopath’.”

            “Fits.” Dean nodded.

            “My father told her father to leave our city. He did not want Kaila anywhere near us.” Key said. “It turned to blows. My father lost his eye in the fight, and his friend—” She bit it off, shaking her head. “Kaila returned home alone. An orphan.”

            “Well, that explains a lot.” Dean stared at the cat statue.

            “She didn’t feel anything when her father died. She watched, and didn’t blink. Only told me, hiding behind my mother’s skirt, that she would kill me. And then she left.” Key tilted her head back to watch the clouds. “I always knew she’d return.”

            “Think she’ll circle back around and try to finish you off?”

            “No.” Key sighed. “No, she’s moved on to larger things.”

            “Mohera,” Dean said, and she nodded. “Wonder if it’s still around.”

            “I believe the explosions frightened it away. And the opposition it faced. It isn’t used to being thwarted. It may move on to calmer waters, for now.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Especially if Kaila possesses a means to take the souls from it.”

            “That damn archangel blade.” Dean growled. “Last time I saw that thing, some black-eyed skank was talking about selling it off to her boss.”

            “Then you think Kaila is working with demons?”

            “She had the sword. And this.” Dean unzipped his duffle and pulled the top open, showing her the Colt, wrapped up in a t-shirt, inside. “That’s enough proof for me.”

            “That makes her all the more dangerous.”

            “Tell me about it.” Dean yanked the zipper closed again. “You watch your back, all right?

            Key smiled softly. “I will.”

            Dean stood, slinging the duffle over his shoulder. “I’ve got your number. We’ll get in touch if, y’know…”

            “We’ll do what we can to help.” Key rose beside him, and kissed him on the cheek. “Good hunting, Dean. Be safe.”

            “Yeah. You, too.”

 

 

            The ride up north in the van wasn’t awkward, exactly; just wasn’t the most fun Dean had ever had. Sam, Gwen and Bobby were in the back and Dean had shotgun with Wataru driving and singing at the top of his lungs. Dean made a mental note to stab Bobby in the neck with an ice-pick if he ever heard a word of Japanese out of him for the rest of their weird, too-short lives.

            Wataru dropped them off outside the terminal, thanked them for their help without looking them in the eyes, and pulled out a cloud of sick gray smoke. Dean waved it away, squinting through the haze for one last look at Tokyo.

            “Good friggin’ riddance.” He hitched the duffle back up onto his shoulder. “Let’s get the hell out of this town.”

            “Right with ya, Winchester.” Gwen said; she still looked a little gray and she had a body-racking cough, but a couple days of being laid up in the remains of the mansion had brought her back from the edge of pneumonia, at least.

            They went through customs without a problem, but Dean couldn’t help thinking of how different this was than when they’d flown in. Things had still been tough, sure, but they’d had Rufus, and John. Bobby had been in a good mood, throwing around translations and bickering with Rufus like nobody’s business.

            This was like a funeral.

            Dean ended up on the concourse with Gwen, waiting for Sam and Bobby to get cleared. Dean kept his eyes moving, looking for threats, but he had a feeling most of those were behind them. For the next seventeen hours, anyway.

            “What’re you gonna do when we get States-side?” He glanced down at Gwen; she looked up, her mouth curling into a wry smile.

            “Disappear, for a little while. Samuel’s gone, but that little bitch he was riding with is still out for my head. Guess I know too much.”

            “You wanna fill us in on that?”

            Her smile widened. “It’s a long flight, Winchester.”

            Sam and Bobby finally caught up with them, and with one last look out the windows, Dean fell in behind them toward the boarding area.

            Didn’t take long to notice how Sam was dragging ass. Dean slowed down to match him. “What’s up?”

            Sam gave him a What-The-Hell-Do-You-Think? look. “It’s kinda like when dad went missing.”

And all the stuff Dean had been cramming into the back of his mind flooded in again. Made him want to tear apart the country, looking for Kaila and John, even though he _knew_ they were gone, probably hundreds of miles out in the ocean.

All they could do was track her down, track the Mohera down. And hope they didn’t get stuck in the middle of a war between the two.

“We’re gonna get him back, Sammy.” Dean said, the rush of a plane taking off over their heads almost drowning out the words. “That’s a promise.”

 

* * *

 

 _"Demons run when a good man goes to war_  
Night will fall and drown the sun   
When a good man goes to war.”—Steven Moffat

 


End file.
